Right Direction, Wrong Occasion
by EnlightenedSkye
Summary: Perhaps Harbinger didn't really conclude the way we thought it did, but is this also only an experiment? RTP, slight Troshi
1. Chapter 1

A/N and Disclaimers: Alright, here we go again. This is the result of a challenge handed down to me by my dear friend and fellow ENT addict, BonesBird. Prompt: "Mal and T'Pol sometime during Season 3." I'm going to publish this in several parts-I really do believe that it reads better that way. My muse is tripping pretty heavy on Trellium here-and as for now, it's rated T and shall remain as such. I'm a sixteen-year-old teenaged girl living in American suburbia...do you really think I have the capability to write smut? Hmm. Read, maybe/YES. Write, definitely not. Many thanks to Shin, the readers, the reviewers, and all of the members of the USS Tumblr for putting up with me. Here is where I obligatorily state that all characters belong to Paramount and no ownership is implied here. Please let me know what you think. As of now, I have a pretty good idea where the story is going, and I would love some feedback. Now, without further ado...

**Right Direction, Wrong Occasion**

**Chapter One**

"Think we're dismissed?" questioned the British armory officer, shifting slightly from one foot to another. Although he hid it carefully behind a well-maintained visage of confidence, his stomach was still in knots from the thorough chewing out he had just received. His partner in this particular crime, a certain Major Hayes, stood abreast from him, arms crossed behind his back. In reaction to his query, the MACO only grunted slightly and turned to face the door. With a well-rehearsed snap, his leg shot out and propelled him out of the Captain's ready room—

_-and hopefully as far away from me as possible,_ mused Lieutenant Commander Malcolm Reed of the NX-01 Enterprise, taking a moment to release a few breaths in an attempt to dispel his own nervous energy that had accumulated in his lungs and gut. Only a minute ago, his commanding officer, Captain Jonathan Archer, had berated himself and Hayes severely for an extreme lack of judgment and professional decorum on both their parts. Acting on several months' worth of pent-up aggression, they had stopped only just short of beginning a full-on row in one of the hallways of the starship. Oh, yes, forget about the fact that they had saved Enterprise and possibly even Earth from certain destruction at the hands of a rogue Suliban—two minutes of nearly harmless hand-to-hand combat had basically erased any memory of any good deeds they had done on the entire mission thus far.

But, at the same time—what had he been doing? Engaging in what pretty much amounted to a child's hissy fit with a subordinate…where was his honor, his integrity, his pride? Malcolm hung his head. One day he would have to apologize to Major Hayes. One day someone would have to accept responsibility for what happened. A Reed always accepted triumph gracefully, and, when proven wrong, always conceded defeat tactfully. His father, his grandfather—they would both be ashamed of him right now. Indulging in a few brief moments of solitude, he pressed his hands to his face and exhaled, his breath coming out in a ragged gasp. _What have you gotten yourself into now, Mal_? He took a peek between his fingers to gaze at the chronometer on the Captain's desk and was shocked by the lateness of the hour. "Back to work," he whispered to himself, although it sounded more like a whimper.

Driven to the very end, Lieutenant Malcolm Reed threw his shoulders back, shook his arms a little, and tentatively stepped out onto the bridge.

Elsewhere on the ship, Commander T'Pol trotted briskly along the corridors, her heels barely touching the ground. Her arms were clasped at her belly button rather than at their normal position at the small of her back. Her normally healthily tan features were slightly flushed, and anyone who had spent an extended period of time with the Vulcan woman could tell that she was struggling to maintain control.

She had maintained her steely gaze and rigid posture while sitting in the mess hall with Commander Tucker; that much was true. She had calmly rebutted all of his attempts at meaningful conversation and had avoided broaching the subject of the nature of her relationship with the surly chief engineer. To borrow a human expression, she was _in the clear_. So, why now did she feel such all-consuming guilt?

_It wasn't supposed to be him!_ The thought jumped and reverberated around in her head, making her pulse quicken and her heart drop. _That's what it was, an experiment—truly only an experiment!_

Turning the corner into a not-often used portion of the ship, she allowed her spine to curve a fraction of an inch as she leaned against one of the bulkheads. A few deep, shuddering breaths escape her lips. _He's not the one I want! He never was!_

At that moment, Malcolm read turned the corner in the opposite direction and found himself face to face with a trembling Vulcan woman, one who looked as if she was going to burst into tears at any second.

"Commander—," he began, unconsciously reaching out to her.

"Malcolm!" She gasped, meeting his outstretched fingers halfway. There was a moment, a sudden spark of heat, and then her hand was at her side again and she had recovered. Her shoulders were immediately thrown behind her and her back straightened out. Her eyes, however, were still red and swollen with unshed tears.

_Wait—what did she just say_? The armory officer blinked several times, replaying the last few seconds in his head. His name. She had said his name!

He closed his gaping jaw with a snap and quickly looked down at his own feet. "Good morning, Commander T'Pol."

He could sense her nodding, moving her delicate neck forwards and backwards only thrice. "Lieutenant Reed." Although he could not see her with his own eyes, he had her movements down, permanently etched into his memory. By now she had probably tilted her head to the left and shifted nearly imperceptibly to her right side. This was T'Pol's normal stance, the Commander's posture at her most relaxed and serene….and beautiful.

_Stop that!_ He sternly told himself. _She's an alien, your superior, she might even be your best friend's—_

"Lieutenant Reed," she began again, and he could hear her stutter slightly on the third syllable, "we have certainly had an eventful night."

His head snapped up and his mouth dropped open once again. _Oh, no, not her too._ The last thing he needed was another lecture. This one would be worse, given that it would come from such a gorgeous, well-spoken, intelligent, lovely—

Her eyes widened slightly. "The alien's escape, that it all that I meant." As soon as it had happened, it was gone again, the stray emotion fleeting across her features like a stray leaf caught in the wind.

Ah, so she had been briefed—about both situations! God knows what she's thinking, Mal. In all actuality, you probably already know. _Irrational human….so quick to emote….so reckless and irresponsible…_

Quite to the contrary, T'Pol of Vulcan was finding it difficult to focus. So near to her chosen one…so unable to act! _He's not Trip,_ she told herself, he's intellectual, he's honorable, and he alone is what she had wanted while she was with Trip— pining, longing to be in a different man's arms. _Malcolm will not_ _hurt you_, her subconscious told her_, Malcolm will treasure you and keep you safe. He will not make you question yourself or feel that you are of less worth than you really are. And he is here, now, with you—_

A familiar craving clutched her gut. It had not even been twenty-four hours since her last injection of Trellium…so why was she in such a state of unrest? She did not even attempt to contemplate this, just reached out and clasped her hand to the left of the armory officer's face.

He stood, frozen in shock, as the Commander stroked his cheek, running her fingertips over the puckered and bruised skin there. It stung a bit, but her touch was tender, and her hand shook slightly as she continued. After a few more seconds, he had the courage to look into her eyes. Such a lovely shade of hazel, nearly green in this light—

"Lieutenant Malcolm Reed…." She whispered, taking a step closer to him. If he wanted to, he could easily wrap his arms around her narrow waist and pull her flush against him. However, a gentleman to the end, his arms remained at his side and he continued to meet her gaze.

He was momentarily reminded of another moment, perhaps two years ago, when the Commander had, in a fit of fever-induced madness, attempted to seduce him in one of the corridors of the ship. He quickly pushed this thought out of his mind—she was here, she was aware, she was not ill. This was real and not a dream. She was now so close that he could feel her breath, her sweet breath, on his chin.

Should he choose now to close the distance between them? Could something like this be taken back? _God, man—she's your superior! Get a hold of yourself-!_

Malcolm didn't have another moment to think as the Vulcan woman took action, pushing him the last few centimeters to the wall and pressing her lips to his.

All his doubts were gone at that moment. Wrapping his arms around the middle of her back, he dared to deepen the kiss. His lips smarted, the insides of his cheeks ached—but none of that mattered.

Lieutenant Malcolm Reed had truly found a bit of happiness, however momentary it might prove to be.

_to be continued_


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Alright, here's a bit of character development and set up for later chapters. As of now, I'm planning on five or six. I realize that right now this isn't the most exciting or well written-however, I must remind you that English is not my native language. Sometimes I slip up and make mistakes that I do not mean to commit-like accidentally calling Malcolm a Lieutenant Commander in Chapter One, even though farther into the chapter, I got his rank right! (Thanks to Belen09 for pointing out this oversight.) Thank you to CoolGIRL2012 for your enthusiastic review, and hugs and kisses to BonesBird and Pippy for acting as my betas for this chapter. This chapter focuses mainly on Trip and his thought process post- awkward morning after conversation in the mess hall. As for Hoshi's role in this story, I want to keep you guessing. Only time and my fickle muse will decide where this thing winds up, but I do humbly swear that Chapter Three will mostly focus on RTP. Is she going to regret that kiss when she sobers up? Hmm. Anyways, whoever reads and reviews will receive one of my famous homemade ginger snap cookies and a small baggie of gummy worms. Keep that in mind.

**Right Direction, Wrong Occasion**

**Chapter Two**

Commander Charles Tucker III of Earth sat at a table in the mess hall of the starship Enterprise deep in thought. Moments ago, his colleague and sometimes lover had fled the room in some certain state of distress.

"This doesn't mean we have to stop doing the neuropressure," he had remarked, attempting to fill those innocent words with as much meaning and innuendo as he could muster. Without a doubt and unmistakably, this woman was an intrinsic part of him, and he would be damned if he was going to let the petite Vulcan Commander slip away from him once again, retreating back into whatever fantasy world she nurtured in her head, a land full of white and unfeeling—

At that time, her dainty hands had brought her tea cup halfway up to her downturned lips. Her gaze had already been averted for the entire duration of the conversation, but when those words reached her ears and her mind began to make some certain sense of them, she froze. The cup, previously suspended in the air, slipped out of her grasp and landed with a thud on the deck plating. This slight audible disturbance caused her to jerk upright in surprise, her eyebrows quickly approaching her hairline before taking in the sight of the shattered pieces of ceramic below her. A few crew members turned their heads to investigate what had caused such an intrusion on their otherwise calm morning meals. Seeing a commanding officer, they quickly looked away, but not before T'Pol's keen eyes caught their glances and she was up, away from the table, and towards the door.

"T'Pol—" he exclaimed, reaching for her retreating back, but found the gesture a few moments too late as the door closed behind her. Taking note of the stares that had once again been trained in his direction, he pulled his hand back and pretended to examine it, as if in search of stray hangnails or flakes of dry skin.

_So much for that,_ he thought, letting out a heavy sigh and allowing his eyelids to droop slightly. He had had a late night, and today was shaping up to be an equally long day.

Had last night been a dream? No, he was sure of it. He had felt her passion, seen the fire behind her eyes as they moved as one in a primal dance. He had felt the urgency at which she had kissed him, had felt her smooth skin pressed up against his own. It felt wonderful for the moment, but Trip had had a sinking feeling that one night of lust was not enough to resolve the issues within what was proving to be a severely dysfunctional relationship. The most spectacular sexual experience he had ever had in his life was not enough to contradict the stress and emotional turmoil that he dealt with on a daily basis as a result of his relationship with this woman. She was unreachable—distant, yet, infrequently, uncontrollably angry and paranoid. And _manipulative_—boy, was she ever manipulative! Did she enjoy playing mind games? Did she enjoy slowly crushing his heart into millions of tiny pieces-

_Wow, Tucker, you sure have changed_, he thought bitterly. Only a year ago he would have felt the need to continue the relationship, if not for the principle of the thing, for the sex. Now, he wasn't entirely sure it was worth it. Hell, he was _sure_ that it wasn't—and he would soon have to do something about it.

So absorbed was he in his thoughts that he didn't seem to notice a heavy pair of boots approaching his table, stopping, and squelching slightly to accommodate the slim body of Ensign Hoshi Sato as she knelt to retrieve the jagged pieces of ceramic shrapnel that littered the floor.

"Commander?" she asked quietly, keeping his slumped-over frame in her peripheral vision as she gathered the shards of pottery from the deck plating. Sweeping them into a cloth napkin, she reached up to place them on the table and stood up. He only offered her a slight nod and a sad smile before returning him gaze to the table before him. _Charles Tucker, sullen?_ Whatever had just happened between himself and T'Pol must have been serious. Her brows knitting together, Hoshi gestured to the chair that had been vacated only a moment prior. "May I?"

"Go 'head," he rasped. Registering how strongly the strained inflection of his voice reflected his inner turmoil, he snapped his mouth shut and opted for only a slight nod.

The spry young Ensign sat down gingerly, and after a second thought, reached out to cover Trip's hand with her own. When his head snapped up to investigate this unexpected break of protocol, she balked, saying, "I'm sorry, Commander, I just—"

He waved his other hand in the air and cleared his throat. "No, Hosh. It's okay." He placed his previously airborne palm over hers.

Hoshi stole a quick glance around the mess hall. When she was sure that everyone's attentions were once again properly trained on their meals and early morning conversations, she turned her focus back to the man in front of her. Commander Tucker seemed thoroughly exhausted from what she could deduce—the dark circles that currently ringed his eyes combined with his poor posture were enough to give her that impression. However, his green eyes that normally shined so bright were now dull; they additionally conveyed a certain sort of sorrow that was completely alien to his usually updrawn features. _Emotionally tired as well?_ Hoshi bit her lip as she pondered where she might start a conversation such as this one.

"How are the engines looking?" she asked, gratified that she had found a way to open up a channel of communication with the brooding Southerner. Shop talk hadn't been what she had been curious about, but it would have to do for now.

He sighed heavily, and his shoulders, as if tiring of supporting a heavy burden, shifted from side to side. "Our Suliban friend sure did a lot of damage, from what I can gather," he began, blinking slowly, "but I haven't been down to engineerin' since 0500 hours."

"Jon ordered you to get some rest?" She smiled softly, surmising that it was not inappropriate to refer to their captain by his first name in this setting.

"Yeah, he did. I don't understand why, though. It's not like a few hours less of sleep woulda hurt me…" he trailed off, his eyes drifting to a section of drably colored wall plating behind the Communication Officer's head.

Hoshi was quiet as she mulled this over in her head. If T'Pol was upset, it probably had something to do with something Commander Tucker had said during one of their nightly neuropressure sessions—whatever happened during those, anyway? She knew what the rumor mill of the ship generally assumed went on, and she tried not to listen to it. Although aware of Trip's numerous sexual escapades with alien women from one side of the universe to the other, she had tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. He and Commander T'Pol were professional, work-driven people who never so much as displayed the slightest indication of any depth to their relationship. Well, none that either one of them would care to acknowledge—

A slight sniff escaped Trip's lips and Hoshi was shaken free from her contemplative state. "Comm—I mean, Trip…are you alright?"

He quickly looked down, withdrawing his hand to clasp it in front of his eyes. Seconds later, the other one followed, and his upper body began to shake slightly.

_He's crying!_ Hoshi thought, all kinds of red flags waving around in her head. Hurriedly, she tried to decide how she should react to such a situation. However, she was interrupted by a sudden outburst from her colleague.

"Why does she do this to me, Hoshi? Why?" His voice pinched and choked with emotion, he demanded answers from someone who did not have the slightest idea.

"I—"

"I give her everythin'!" he leaned in, hissing through clenched teeth. "And it's not enough! It'll never be enough fer 'er! I can't—she'll never know—oh, god…" His incoherence abruptly degenerated into a series of muffled sobs as fat tears emerged from the corners of his swollen eyes.

Hoshi's eyes darted around them, catching glimpses of fellow crew members as they laid down their forks and began to, as subtly as they could, watch the drama unfolding a few tables over. On a split second decision, Hoshi stood, leaving the broken pieces of the Commander's coffee mug on the tabletop. Grasping the sleeve of Trip's uniform, she yanked him to the door and out of the mess hall.

A few steps later, she slid into the lift and pressed a small button on the wall panel. The doors slid shut, but the capsule did not move.

Trip was now desperately trying to choke back the sobs that were ravaging his body, making loud gasping noises as he attempted to restore a normal breathing rate. Hoshi grabbed his chin and forced him to look up at her.

"You and T'Pol…" she began, not quite sure how to place the inquiry that was plaguing her into words.

He nodded emphatically, jerkily. "Yea, it's not goin' real well, though," he laughed, a short, sharp bark, "I shoulda seen that comin' a mile away." He grimaced, acclimatizing to the strength of Ensign Sato's grip.

So many questions now came to Hoshi's mind, some shallow and superficial in nature, some a bit more intrusive. They would all have to wait for a later date, however—the last thing that Commander Tucker needed right now was an interrogation session concerning his relationship with Commander T'Pol.

"You should speak to her," she offered weakly, knowing full well that Trip would not like the idea.

"That's the problem, she's runnin' from me, always got an excuse. I can never get a straight answer. I've never been able to."

Hoshi let go of Trip's chin and instead extended her arms in front of her. "If that's the case, then you only need to confront her in a place where she can't escape,"-here she mimicked the motion of air quotes—"such as her quarters. I mean, what is she going to do, walk out and leave you there?" She gave him a small smile, but it was not returned. The Commander slowly dragged a finger under his moist eyelids.

"She may tell me to get out and never speak to 'er again."

"How would that even pan out? You and her work together on a daily basis," Hoshi quipped, laying one outstretched palm on either of his arms. "It may take you a while to think of what you're going to say, but don't let that deter you." He sighed, a long exhale of breath from his lips. She continued, "The Commander Tucker I know would_ never_ back down from a challenge." He looked straight into her eyes this time, with an intensity that almost made her take a step backwards into the wall. "You've been throttled, choked, bound, gagged, beaten, and terrorized by hostile species since we've been out here—and you're scared of a woman?" She placed extra emphasis on those last two words, hoping that the Commander wouldn't interject with a cry of, _She's not just a woman! She's bigger than all of that!_ But, he didn't, only reached forward and gingerly clasped his hands on Hoshi's shoulders.

The sudden gesture took her by surprise. She blinked and spluttered a bit.

"Thanks, Hosh. I promise, I'll speak to 'er the next opportunity that I get." His words hung in the air for a few moments as they stood locked in their own friendly embrace. Finally, he broke off to gesture at the panel on the wall. "A Deck?" he queried gently.

_to be continued_


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Alright, here's your first taste of some true RTP fluff. You all should be pleased to know that I have made the executive decision to continue this story at least through the beginning of Azati Prime, perhaps to the end of Damage if I am particularly inspired. This means that there will be roughly nine or ten chapters in all. Looks like you all are in it for the long haul! ^.^ Thank you to all who sent me feedback via private message-your constructive criticism is appreciated. Thanks always to BonesBird (note the subtle Jorika reference in this chapter, that's just for you) and the other members of the USS Tumblr for beta reading my work and encouraging me. I know that this chapter could read a bit confusing, what with all of the flashbacks and jump-forwards. If you seek clarification, send me a message and I will do my best. On a personal note, I will be celebrating my six month anniversary free of self harm this weekend, and I am extending the celebration on to all of you. Expect an additional chapter this weekend in which we experience the exposition for the episode Doctor's Orders from Trip's very curmudgeon-like point of view, Hoshi wondering why he hasn't confronted T'Pol yet, Malcolm reminiscing about how he managed to apologize to Major Hayes, and a little bit of mess with some Trellium thrown in for good measure. Let me know what you think so I know how to improve. Yours truly, Skye

**Right Direction, Wrong Occasion**

**Chapter Three**

"Good morning, Commander," The armory officer intoned as he observed the woman silently slip into the room. Several officers glanced upwards before straightening their spines and returning their attention to their work. Malcolm Reed was now used to the effect that the Vulcan science officer had a majority of the crew; she was the omnipresent force of correction on the ship, the harbinger of order and discipline. It was true that many of his colleagues viewed her as staunch, emotionless; Malcolm knew otherwise. Over the past three days, he had been privy to what was surely a substantial development concerning the relationship between their two species—he and the Commander had embarked on what could only be described as an unassuming, albeit intense, love affair.

Drawing back from her after their moment of intimacy in the corridor some ways from the Captain's ready room, Malcolm became aware that he was studying her face intently. The slightest motion—a quirk of her well-shaped lips, the arch of a defined eyebrow—might be as much of a reaction that he would get from her. That simple response could mean the difference between the denotation of the start of something new—or, conversely, the abject desire to terminate whatever had begun right here only a few moments ago.

And the British armory officer was more than willing to do that for her-for T'Pol, absolutely anything. If she did not wish for his company, he would have no choice but to comply with her request. However, if she fancied a continued relationship, he would be willing to oblige. In fact, he would be more than willing. For years, he had convinced himself that the longing and admiration he felt for the woman was unrequited. The notion that she might desire him, choose him for a companion….it was simply enthralling. Watching her grow closer to Trip day by day—it had been difficult for Malcolm to put aside his feelings for her. For the sake of the mission and his sanity, he had strived valiantly to push those thoughts out of his mind. However, there were moments where he could sense the envy and frustration seeping out of his sub-conscious and into his day-to-day life. Even two nights ago in the mess hall, as he and Commander Tucker discussed innocent topics such as Major Hayes' newly implanted training regimen and the current status of their journey to Azati Prime, the conversation suddenly veered into more personal territory when Malcolm questioned Trip's involvement with MACO officer Corporal Cole. Although he typically attempted to discourage such behavior, he couldn't help but listen in when a few of his armory officers began to gossip about the pair. Was it true that he was administering Vulcan neuropressure to Amanda Cole? From what he heard, it sounded like a pretty intimate procedure, especially when he was already receiving such a treatment from Commander T'Pol.

_Just like Trip,_ Malcolm recalled thinking bitterly, _to continue playing the field after what he had pretty much secured what he actually wanted._ On top of that, it was downright disrespectful to both of the women—leading them on just because you knew that you could? Despicable!_ If it were me,_ he swore internally, _I would treat her like a queen, never make her feel as insecure as this thoughtless git probably does on a daily basis—_

In that moment, he had been so consumed with jealousy that he decided to see how far he could push Commander Tucker. Yes, he had said it all, a string of presumptuous insinuations laced with smarm and plenty of sarcasm before the grand finale:

"I guess this Vulcan neuropressure isn't that intimate after all!"

"Exactly."

"In that case," he began, setting his fork down and reaching for his side, "I've got a nasty little pain—"

"Just drop it!"

Malcolm knew he had done it now. A small scoff escaping from his lips, he speared a piece of glazed chicken on his plate and brought it up to his lips to stifle his rapidly-forming grin.

Snapping back to reality, he became distinctly aware that she was reciprocating his gaze, strongly and steadily. Her face may have been emotionless, but the light of a thousand stars danced behind her eyes and conveyed to him more than she would ever be willing to divulge. The uncontrollable spasms that had seized his stomach only moments before suddenly relaxed; he knew that there was nothing to fear. A smile slowly spread across his features, ignoring the pain from the bruises on the left side of his face that had not yet healed.

Returning her arms to his neck, she leaned in and placed her delicate lips near his ear. "My shift ends at 1800 hours."

Oh, _right._ Duty. He deflated a bit at the thought of cleaning already spotless torpedo tubes and running additional needless security diagnostics when there was clearly somewhere he would rather be. In addition, there was a high chance that he would run into Major Hayes sometime during the day and—what? What had he been planning on doing? Yes, apologizing to him. That was what it was. Although he knew it to be a near obligation, he was still dreading it.

"And mine at 1900 hours." He murmured, taking in a deep breath. She smelled of some sort of spice and lemons. A lovely scent, he decided, one he would grow to associate with her in the future.

She pulled away, sliding her palms to his forearms and holding him at arm's length. "I request your presence in my quarters tonight when it is most convenient. We have much to discuss."

"Um…yes…we certainly do!" He babbled, silently cursing his sudden apparent transformation into a nervous grade school boy entertaining his crush.

T'Pol acknowledged this with a curt nod before sliding away from him and turning on her heels. Her hands clasped tightly in the small of her back, she resumed her purposeful stride down the corridor.

Malcolm crossed his arms and leaned against the bulkhead once more. Though externally he had reverted back to his typical impassive countenance, his mental state was anything but pacific as he attempted to cope with the sudden influx of thoughts running through his mind, not many of them pleasant.

_This can't be happening. It must be a mistake,_ he granted, _a simple momentary lapse of judgment on her part. How would it be possible that the Vulcan science officer would fall in love with him? She could have chosen anyone. Any man on board would have gladly had her—Travis would, Jon would, Trip would—_

_Trip._ He closed his eyes. It was quite apparent that Commander Tucker had romantic feelings for T'Pol. Everyone on the crew knew about it, there was no sense in denying it. _What would he say to you, Malcolm?_ He questioned. _What you've done, essentially, is steal your best mate's girl. It's going to be hell when he finds out—you'll have to answer to his anger one of these days. Sooner, rather than later, given the engineering staff's penchant for constant gossiping. One sidelong look at her and the speculation will begin, and by the end of the duty shift everyone will know. And then Jon will know, and he'll bring up those damn fraternization rules…_

Malcolm shifted uncomfortably. It had been the council's prerogative to institute a certain set of guidelines into the code of protocol of the Enterprise besides the usual safety and health regulations. This group of documentations proved to be just as specific as its counterparts, further detailed the code of conduct between officers of any star ship. In order to preserve the sanctity of the mission at hand, at no time were any officers to engage in a romantic relationship with any other member of Star Fleet currently residing on their ship. Any violation would result in a penalty that a man like Malcolm could only describe as devastating—a removal from your post and an immediate recall back to Earth for review.

He had not had any trouble following these guidelines until now. The only woman he wanted was incapable of reciprocating his feelings—so he thought. But now that he was faced with the reality of the situation, he knew that he would do whatever it took to keep her in his company. She wasn't like Rochelle or Caitlin or Deborah or any of those other women—she was _her!_ Malcolm was positive that he had never felt this way about a woman before. He was sure of it. _Please, god, don't let her say she regrets what we've just done,_ he prayed silently. _If you must only grant me one thing in my life, give me this. We could share so much together…so many experiences to be had…heaven help me; I love her so much…_

His fists clenched and unclenched as he soon remembered where he was and what he had to do. Heaving a truly monumental exhalation, he resolved to declare his intentions to T'Pol tonight in her quarters. In the meantime, there was a more pressing matter to attend to.

He had to apologize to Major Hayes.

"Lieutenant," back in the armory, T'Pol acknowledged his greeting quietly and surreptitiously began to cross the room towards him, sidestepping torpedo casings and various pieces of equipment that littered the floor. Malcolm's men and women had been busy preparing for the eventuality of their arrival at the gas giant Azati Prime; in the case that Degra had been lying to Captain Archer and the weapon indeed wasn't located there, it was highly likely that they would instead be led into a trap. And Malcolm would be damned if we was going to let Enterprise be destroyed because of a four centimeter inaccuracy in the ship's targeting mechanism or a misfiring phase pistol. Checking and rechecking seemingly every piece of gear on the entire ship was monotonous work, but at least is kept his hands busy. If he was working, he was not worrying, and worrying was undeniably a common pastime of his.

"What can I do for you today?" He tried his best to keep his tone as neutral as possible as she paused in front of him.

"Captain Archer asked me to make my rounds among the departments and gauge how they are acclimatizing to the conditions in the Expanse as of late."

"Couldn't he have asked Hoshi to do it?"

"My particular expertise was considered….required." At this, he snorted. Jon probably just wanted her off the bridge for a bit. He sure had been in a bad mood these past few weeks. Well, they all had.

"Here are the specifications for your next round of improvements." As she handed the PADD to him, his fingers brushed against her own and she took pause.

Malcolm seized the opportunity to give her a wink before sliding the PADD from her delicate hands. Squinting, he focused on the screen. "I wish that Commander Tucker would run some of the modifications he makes to the engines by me first so I have an opportunity to formulate a plan for compensation."

"Commander Tucker may be devoted to his work, but he does not always work well with his colleagues." She admonished absentmindedly, crossing her arms in front of her.

In a display of amusement that was most uncharacteristic of him, a smile spread, unrestrained, across his features. Although his stomach did leap slightly every time she mentioned the southerner, hearing her depreciate him did wonders for his own self esteem. It wasn't like she held him in any high regard; she had made that perfectly clear three nights ago.

_Three nights ago._ His heart rate quickened just to reminisce about it. He had arrived at her quarters a few minutes after 1900 hours, palms sweaty and head buzzing. Hours earlier, he had summoned enough courage to apologize to Major Hayes—surely he could do this. He had pressed the comm button next to her door and waited. No less than a second later came her voice: "Who is it?"

"It's me, Lieu—Malcolm," he swallowed, desperately trying to keep his voice from increasing in pitch.

"Come in."

As soon as he stepped inside, she was there, enveloping him into a crushing embrace. As the door slid shut behind him, he leaned against it and held her, impulsively, possessively.

Her head was tucked into his neck and he could feel her inhaling deeply. Everything was quiet for several minutes as they stood there, wrapped in each other's arms. With every steady rise and fall of her back, Malcolm could feel himself relaxing, settling more into her grip. Resting his cheek against her ear, he closed his eyes as well and relished the sweet sensation for a few moments. He was finally here, with her. Everything was how it should be.

Suddenly, she stirred, raising her head up to look him in the eye. He could see nothing but the twinkle he had seen earlier—only now, if possible, magnified exponentially. Mirroring one of her ministrations earlier in the day, he reached out to caress her cheek with his free hand.

"I'm sorry…" She whispered.

"No," he shook his head slightly, leaning forward to rest his forehead against hers.

"He wasn't the one I wanted," her voice was now almost inaudible and Malcolm had to strain to hear it.

"Who?"

"Commander Tucker," she hissed bitterly, a bit of emotion seeping into her tone. "It was a mistake. Please, forgive me. I did not know what I truly desired—I was confused—"

"You don't need to apologize for anything, love," he planted a chaste kiss on her brow. "This is not going to be easy—I'm not even going to pretend that it will be—but I'm more than willing to try."

"As am I," she mumbled, standing up on her toes to meet his lips with her own. Malcolm seized the opportunity to draw her closer, swearing to himself that this time he would not let her slip away from him so soon again.

_My god. And to think of how far we've come since then…_ Aware that his face was rapidly turning crimson in color, he stole a quick look around the armory. No one appeared to be observing his conversation with the Commander—praise the lord. Malcolm truly was a paranoid man, and now his clandestine relationship with a superior was just another thing for him to fear being discovered. It was all worth it, this he knew, but not without a few dozen or so panic attacks along the way on his part.

"Your presence is requested on the bridge at 1100 hours," she stated, tilting her head slightly in his direction.

Embarrassed that he had let his attention wane that easily, he turned back to her. "I wasn't informed of any planned meetings of the senior staff."

"I would not say that this conference was premeditated in any sense of the word. Be sure that you report." And with that, Commander T'Pol was off, back across the minefield of mechanical parts scattered across the deck plating and to the door.

Malcolm watched her go, a small smile on his face. What could she be referring to? There really was no telling. He was bound to find out sooner or later, and that quelled the nervous energy that he already felt gathering deep within his gut. Casting one last suspicious glance around the room, he returned once again to his work.

_to be continued_


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Well well well, welcome to chapter four! I've been getting a lot of positive feedback for this story so far. Thank you to my new followers, the reviewers, the favorite-ers! CoolGIRL2012, thank you for your amazing suggestions. I'll be sure to take them into account as I plan out these next few chapters. Hugs and kisses to BonesBird as always. I wanted to let you all know that I am working on three other projects simultaneously-oneshots about two minor characters in the show, and a rewrite of an episode from the point of view of five different pairings. It'll be at least a week until the next chapter is uploaded, but no more than two. I'm sorry that I didn't get around to more Hayes drama in this chapter-it just didn't fit particularly well anywhere in here. Rest assured that the MACO that everyone loves to hate will be back eventually, and with a vengeance. Enjoy Trip being uncharacteristically whiny and the gratuitous RTP and Troshi fluff in this chapter. There's also bit of foul language here. You have been warned. Let me know what you think, am I writing the characters too OOC?

**Right Direction, Wrong Occasion**

**Chapter Four**

The previous night, Commander T'Pol of Vulcan had sat in her quarters with her legs tucked under her, staring into the wick of a knobby yellow candle. Her back was ramrod straight, but her hands were clutched on top of her knee caps in a death grip, twisting, wringing. Digging her immaculately manicured fingernails into her palm, she drew in a shuddering, gasping breath.

_Inhale. Exhale,_ she commanded herself sternly, _Malcolm will arrive at the designated time of appointment in mere minutes. On time, as is his nature. You do not wish to have him view you in this state. You wish to be yourself—composed, rational…_

_Logical._ She drew her knees to her chin in one swift motion, shutting her delicately folded eyelids. _You are not being logical, T'Pol,_ a voice in her head declared. _Another human man? They are all the same, those creatures—_

"No," she wheezed, rocking back on forth on her heels.

_Malcolm shall abandon you just like Trip had done…why ever do you persist in making yourself vulnerable, risking bonding with such unfounded beings? Human men only yearn for one thing—human women. These desires that you harbor deep inside of you, they will only destroy you in the end—_

"Stop!" her voice was raspy as she rose, tottering on unsteady legs towards her desk in the corner of the room. It was not a command to an unseen entity, but rather to herself. She had made his route numerous times, crossed the deck plating of her quarters in this same precise manner so frequently that it had almost become a habit. At the first hint of nausea or trembling in her extremities, she made the brief trek to the top drawer of her work desk. Although the liquefier she so often utilized was housed in one of the many rooms adjacent from the main science laboratory on board, she always stored a few spare injection vials in her quarters along with a hypospray that she had lifted from sick bay. _It had been so easy,_ she reflected, _to reach into the cabinet when Phlox's back was turned._ T'Pol was sure that he had not even discovered that such an insignificant piece of his equipment was missing. Rolling the smooth metal cylinder in her fingers, she realized that her other hand was reaching towards the handful of vessels filled to the brim with a murky fluid that had been pushed to the back of the drawer and secured in their places by a few paperback books loaned to her by Ensign Sato. The infinitesimal amounts of liquid Trellium-D sloshed around in their containers, appearing perfectly beckoning and inviting to the distressed Vulcan woman.

_This is unnecessary_, she reasoned with herself,_ this addiction has not assisted you to become immune to the chemical; in fact, it's made it worse. You could stop injecting, if not today, then…_

"Tomorrow," she promised, her chilled fingers closing around one of the vials. There was always time to recover, and always more time to contemplate the situation; now, what she wanted, she craved, was only the sweet emotional release that Trellium could provide.

The communication device attached to her door chimed, bringing her back to reality. The chronometer read 1903 hours, Malcolm was here, and the time was right. T'Pol let the cylindrical tube fall from her grasp, roughly slammed the drawer shut with her outstretched fingers. Taking a deep breath to steady her voice, she intoned, "Come in."

He was inside within seconds, and wrapped in her embrace the next instant. T'Pol gratefully fell into his arms, relishing the sensations of his touch. With one hand, he rubbed her back in tight, circular motions. When he spoke into her ear, his voice was breathy and husky. "I missed you, love."

She pulled back slightly, only to find herself being crushed to his chest once again. "I do hope that you realize how illogical that statement is. We did, after all, eat our midday meal together only a few hou—"

She was effectively silenced by a searing kiss that further weakened her knees and caused her heart rate to quicken. She leaned into him to keep from toppling over, squirming as their acts of passion quickly became more heated. Hands slid over soft planes and hard contours, pleasing her immensely. Catching her fingers as they slid to the zipper on the front panel of his uniform, she was reminded of a different intimate encounter with another man only a few evenings ago.

_Three nights ago,_ she insisted to herself; that was all it was._ And he held me in a similar manner, and caressed me in a certain way, and he…he…_

Pulling back sharply, suddenly, she found herself gasping desperately for air. She clutched her chest and felt her breast heaving in and out. She stumbled a few steps back to lean heavily against the bulkhead next to the window. The only illuminations in the room were brief glimpses of stars as they rushed by and the muted light of the candle at her feet. Through the subtle incandescence, she could see Malcolm gazing at her, not with pity or disgust, but with worry and concern.

"Darling, what's the matter?" He approached her cautiously, arms outstretched as if to receive her.

_How could he care for me even after finds out about the things that I have done?_ She wondered, blinking slowly. "I have been feeling…apprehensive…about our pending arrival at Azati Prime."

"T'Pol, both you and I know that that's not the only thing that's upsetting you," when she did not respond automatically, he asked, "Is this about Trip?"

She shook her head to indicate no immediately, then changed her mind and acknowledged yes. After hesitating for a moment, she whispered, "He _knew_ me, Malcolm."

He cracked a wry smile. "Well, that kind of goes along with working in close proximity with someone for a while—"

She cut him off, holding up a shaky hand. "No. He knew me…_intimately_," her voice got progressively quieter and quieter until the last word was nearly inaudible.

His facial expression flickered from assured to stunned for a few seconds before he recovered and closed the distance between them. "T'Pol," He murmured, his lips only millimeters from her, "Look at me."

She did, and Malcolm was shocked to see tears suspended there. He reached out to her and cupped her cheek, leery that she might pull away in indignation, but she did not. "Dear, I don't give a damn what you may have done with any other man."

"But—" she interjected, and was silenced by the calloused finger of his other hand pressing against her lips.

He resumed his train of thought, "I have loved you from the moment I laid eyes on you." The tears were now free-flowing, leaving damp rivulets running down her cheek. "All that truly matters is that you're here with me, and I get to hold you and support you through whatever you are going through." He knew that there was quite possibly more she was upset about, but he could sense that now was not the time to press his luck. "We may take things between us as fast or slow as you would like. We're not going to lose time. I am not going anywhere." He pressed his lips to her temple, determined to kiss every single one of those tears away. "I will listen to what you have to say without judgment, darling. It would be hypocritical of me to treat this situation any other way, would it not?"

She nodded her assent, mustering all the courage she had to ask him a question that had been plaguing her ever since he had come in. "Malcolm, _t'hy'la_, will you stay here tonight? At least until I am able to find sleep?"

He smiled unwittingly, nuzzling his forehead against hers. "As you wish, love." As her slim arms snaked around his waist, he uttered a small susurration: "_T'hy'la?_ I've never heard that one before. What does that mean?"

"Soul mate, life companion," she murmured, temporarily losing her ability to form coherent sentences as Malcolm led her the short distance to her bunk. Laying down and rolling over to face him, she drew herself as close to his body as possible, taking pleasure in his warmth and comfort within his strong embrace. Only a few earth minutes later, she was slumbering peacefully, and Malcolm was struggling not to follow her example.

_I can't sleep here_, he told himself, _I must leave her quarters before the morning, and when I do, I must be sure that I am not discovered—I really hope that no one experiences an inconvenient bout of insomnia tonight and decides to wander aimlessly through the corridors—god knows that happened to me often enough when we first began this mission…_

So it was true that she had been intimate with Commander Tucker. Now that she had personally confirmed the rumors in confidence, Malcolm wasn't so sure how he felt about the situation. On one hand, he was steadfast in his decision to stick by her no matter was she had done in the private company of any crewman. However, his pride had taken a small hit by the revelation of her former relationship. If it truly was over between Trip and T'Pol, how long ago did they cease to be a couple? What exactly had triggered her decision to approach him in the hallway two days ago, anyways, when she obviously had a more attractive option in the chief engineer?

Malcolm frowned, exhaling slowly. He would have to bring these questions to her attention eventually, but today was not the time. Glancing over his shoulder at the chronometer on her desk, he saw that it was now past 2100 hours and that he really had spent a great deal of time buried deep in thought. Taking immense care not to awaken the sleeping woman beside him, he slid out from the bed and turned to leave. Before he did, he leaned down to blow out the candle that was still burning strong among the abandoned meditation pillows on the floor.

He crept silently towards the door before turning and looking back on T'Pol's sleeping form once more. She looked incredibly peaceful, her chest rising and falling with each breath. The deep russet color of the pajamas she was wearing really brought out the dark bronzed tone of her skin._ She's beautiful,_ he thought, _and she is all mine. I will bring up the subject of her relationship with Trip in the near future—not today, or the next, but when the time is right._ Contented, he turned his back on the scene and stepped out into the passageway, all the while self-consciously running his palms over the lapels and panels of his rumpled uniform. Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, nevertheless, was in a good mood, and as he tread lightly through the corridor, he whistled to himself quietly as he thought of how well he was going to sleep tonight and what good dreams he surely would have.

So absorbed was he in his thoughts that he failed to notice a certain member of the engineering staff leaning against the wall a few meters away, his endeavor to gather his courage before confronting the Vulcan Commander all but being forgotten as he watched the other man leave her quarters.

Trip Tucker was angry. There was no other way to word it, he was uncontrollably and undeniably pissed off. And if his presence had not been requested on the bridge at 1100 hours for a meeting of the seniormost officers, he would have remained in the gym throughout the morning, aggressively taking swings at an already battered punching bag and pretending that it instead was a certain armory officer's smug little face.

"Goddamn British prick," he grunted, delivering another swift roundhouse kick to the tattered piece of workout equipment_. What was he doing, weaseling in with his woman like that? He practically had an unofficial claim on her—hell, they had only had sex three and a half days ago! When they had eaten together on the day previous, Malcolm had even insinuated that he knew that T'Pol was his girl—so why in the ever-living hell had he been leaving her quarters at so late of an hour? What had they been doing?_

Although he had no intention to, Trip suddenly remembered something that Malcolm had said when they had eaten lunch together earlier in the week: "I guess this Vulcan neuropressure isn't that intimate after all!"

_Great,_ now his mind was filled with images of T'Pol bent over Malcolm, massaging the neural nodes on his chest, the somewhat compromising position she was in affording him the perfect view of her—

"Dammit!" he swore, leaving the workout mat and crossing the room to where he had slung his towel over a currently unused treadmill's handlebars. That was it. He was sick of the mind games T'Pol played with him, sick of being toyed around with as if he had no emotions, and especially sick of Malcolm's meddling. That asshole had and was going to be put down, even if it was the last thing he'd do—

"It's directly on our route to Azati Prime," T'Pol was saying, standing in front of an illuminated display screen on the bridge.

"Why didn't our sensors pick it up before now?" The Captain queried, looking to his science officer, as always, for answers.

"Because it wasn't there before now," she responded. Trip could detect a note of irritation in her voice, but what right had she to be agitated? _She_ wasn't the one whose heart was slowly being broken and crushed into hundreds of tiny, fragile pieces. "It's similar to the phenomenon that we encountered a few weeks ago."

"A trans-dimensional disturbance," intoned Captain Archer, and to Trip it sounded more like a statement than a question. He irrationally felt his anger flare at the declaration made by his superior and sometimes-friend. Just like Jon, he thought, always pretending like he knows more about the situation than he actually did.

"This region is being rapidly reconfigured as we speak," T'Pol stated, looking back on him with a slightly elevated eyebrow.

As if apprehensive of how she might respond, Jonathan asked, "How long would it take to go around it?"

"Two weeks."

His lips forming a tight line, he shook his head. Trip was barely able to restrain a groan, temporarily refocusing on the mission at hand. They would never be able to arrive at Azati Prime in the prompt, expedient manner that they had intended to if they practically had to make a full stop every time they encountered another one of these stupid anomalies.

"Another detour?" Malcolm scoffed, unwittingly sharing Trip's sentiments. He looked at T'Pol for confirmation.

"Perhaps not," meeting his gaze, Trip was shocked to hear how her voice abruptly softened, changing pitch and timbre. He had only ever heard it do this for two reasons—when she was under severe emotional distress or when she was—

_Oh my god._

He looked across the room to Hoshi, who was sitting at her console and listening to the senior officers' conversation intently. Tilting his head slightly in Malcolm's direction, he hoped that his expression was enough to convey what he truly wanted to communicate with her. A split second later, Hoshi's mouth fell open and she pressed a delicate palm against it, her eyes wide.

Completely oblivious to the silent exchange going on between the ship's second in command and communication officer, T'Pol was saying, "Since this region was formed only recently, it hasn't been completely reconfigured. We should still be able to cross it safely."

Wait a second, something wasn't adding up. "You said that nothing from our universe could survive inside these things," Trip reminded her.

Her expression flickered for a moment been exasperation and frustration. She acknowledged Phlox, who had been standing only a few short meters away for the duration of the entire conversation. "Doctor?"

"That's true," he admitted, "unless we take the appropriate precautions. The reconfigured space disrupts the human neocortex, but I can counteract the effects by dampening the crew's neurological activity, it would be like, erhm, oh, shutting down the main computer to protect it from an ion storm."

Trip cast a doubtful glance at Jon, who returned it. "How do you plan to, uh, shut down our neocortexes?"

"Quite simply, I can place each of you in a comatose state until we've passed through the affected region."

Trip turned his chin to the ceiling and grimaced, already disliking the idea. What if Phlox had trouble bringing him out of the artificial coma after they had passed through the disturbance? What if he had lost his nerve to confront Malcolm by then?

"How quickly can we get across it?" Jon inquired.

"Less than an hour at warp four," she replied, and Trip indicated his dissent.

"I don't wanna risk going to warp in there. Who knows what kind of effect this disturbance will have on our warp field?" His last question was more rhetoric than anything else, but just in case T'Pol had a rebuttal already at her disposal, he added insistently, "We'll be safer sticking to impulse." He turned his head in Phlox's direction. "You're gonna hafta to keep us in comas for—" he paused, puffing his cheeks out with a sudden outflow of air, "at least four days?"

The doctor nodded as Malcolm added, "That's still less time than it would take to go around it."

Trip glared at him. You better not try and take credit for my idea, you squinty-eyed little—

"Can you keep us under that long?"

Phlox shrugged. "It shouldn't cause any problems."

Trip sighed heavily, casting another pointed glance in Captain Archer's direction, silently imploring him to beg and plead for Phlox to devise a simpler course of action, one that wouldn't demand taking them all out of the loop for nearly half a week. He didn't, only placed his hands on his hips and said, "Alright, Doctor. Begin synthesizing any neural suppressants that you might need, If you need extra hands, I'm sure that Commander T'Pol would not mind you borrowing Crewman Cutler or Ensign Novokovich for a few hours, would she?"

"No," she assured him, reaching across the table to retrieve her PADD that she had placed there at the beginning of the meeting. "I shall begin to write a ship-wide communiqué for transmission this afternoon. This will give everyone approximately twenty-four hours to prepare. If any crewman has questions about our plan, please direct them to Doctor Phlox or myself."

Captain Archer nodded before turning his back to the gathered group of senior officers and making haste towards his ready room. "Dismissed."

Phlox took a step towards the turbolift, undoubtedly on his way back to sickbay to begin his work. Trip turned to follow him, but a slight movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention before he could step away.

On his way back to his station, Malcolm had extended two fingers in T'Pol's direction, and she had reciprocated the gesture. After stroking his protracted digits against her own for a fraction of a second, he was gone, retaking his position at his station to rerun a bio-scan for the thousandth time today or god knows what. As Trip's gaze swept back over the bridge, he caught Hoshi's eye.

She cleared her throat and asked, "Commander, may I speak with you in private?"

Attempting to keep his tone as bland and professional as possible, he replied, "Of course, Ensign."

The pair silently made their way to the lift, but as soon as the doors slid shut in front of them, Hoshi turned to face Trip. "Oh my god, he's—"

"I know!"

"And the Commander is—"

_"I know!"_

Hoshi leaned against the railing that encircled the small capsule at waist's height. "Are you familiar with that hand gesture that they used?"

Trip shook his head to indicate that he wasn't. Hoshi took a deep breath before continuing, "It's called the _ozh'esta_. When I was in college, my Vulcan language professor's wife often visited him from the Vulcan consulate. When they thought that we weren't looking, they would extend two fingers and—" she trailed off, mimicked the action in mid-air. "It's often used as a sign of affection between bondmates."

_Bondmates._ That word hit Trip like a ton of bricks. Although his knowledge of Vulcan social customs was limited, he was aware of the stigma surrounded that word. He was rapidly losing control of the situation. He needed T'Pol back. He loved her. She was his joy, his light, his inspiration, his motivation for staying sane while in the Expanse. And now, finally understanding how far things had progressed between her and Malcolm, he was aware that he would not be able to do it alone.

"Hosh, last night I saw Malcolm coming out of T'Pol's quarters," he declared, waiting for her reaction. When there was none, he continued: "I may need your…_advice_."

"I thought you'd never ask," she quipped as the doors of the turbolift slid open. "Your quarters or mine?"

"Mine's closer," he indicated the correct direction with a tilt of his head.

As they walked, Trip dragging his feet slightly and Hoshi with her normal bouncing gait, she asked, "Have you even tried to speak to her?"

_What was she implying?_ Trip furrowed his brow. "I was on my way to speak to her when I saw Malcolm leaving her quarters." Funny, he had thought that had been obvious.

"Since you're obviously too chicken shit to confront her while she's on duty—"

"Hey! I am not! I'm just all about waiting for the right opportunity!"

"Uh-huh," Hoshi murmured, and Trip could tell that she was not entirely convinced. "What about when she's in the mess hall, or in the gym, or in the hallway?"

"Too public," he insisted, entering the access code that would open the doors to his quarters. The two slid in, one after the other. He took a few steps to come to rest near the window, watching the stars whizz by. "I want it to be special, just the two of us. And I want a definitive answer this time, nothing meaningful that's hidden behind mounds of Vulcan stiltspeak."

"Alright, fine, have it your way, Trip." Hoshi sighed, exasperated. "I'm going to show you one last way you can get her to respond."

Crossing the room in three long strides, Hoshi came to stand still in front of him. "Listen, you're going to have to promise me that you'll stop being a pussy and actually go forward with my plan, alright? If you do, it's foolproof."

He nodded vigorously.

"Don't just shake me off. I need your word."

"Alright, fine, Hosh. You got me. I promise to-"

Trip was cut short by a hot, passionate kiss. Caught off guard, he stumbled backwards, only to find himself being pursued by the slim communications officer. Just as he began to reach for her waist to pull her in closer, she abruptly took a step back.

"That's all you have to do," she advised him breathlessly, wiping her lower lip with her uniform's sleeve. "Just walk up to her and do that. It'll work wonders, believe me."

Trip nodded vigorously, still stunned at what Hoshi had just done. He gripped the edge of his desk to try and steady himself. He was keenly aware of the blush that was now spreading across his face.

"See you around," Hoshi slurred before sauntering out of the room on unsteady legs. So she had been affected as much by that kiss as he had—

As soon as the door slid shut behind her, Commander Charles Tucker fell face down into his pillow. He sure as hell had a lot to think about.

_to be continued_


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Alright, I know that this chapter is unspeakably boring, but it's quite necessary for plot and character development. I hope no one gets offended that I wound up using several of my own headcanons involving Malcolm's family and several of the minor characters. My two beta friends have also mentioned that I made this too OOC on several characters-for example, Hayes isn't _that much_ of a dick, Amanda isn't that forceful, Trip is being whiny and annoying, Malcolm wouldn't swear like that, blah blah blah. I'm not very confident in this chapter, and I'm aware that it's not very good. Don't be too mean to me. After all, I delivered this chapter to you all faster than I said I would! (: There's quite a bit of crude language here, so be forewarned. Next week on RDWO: The first confrontation of Trip and Malcolm, and a _whole darn lot_ of Hoshi. Oh, and yes, the bit about Section 31 at the end is indeed very crucial to the plot of the story in the next few chapters, so keep that in mind. This week, every reviewer gets a kiss-a Hershey's Kiss, that is! However, it depends on how kind your review is. You might just get a peck on the lips out of me.

**Right Direction, Wrong Occasion**

**Chapter Five**

"McKenzie, do you see what I see?"

The female MACO paused, placing her fork onto the table, and began to turn around in her seat.

"No, no! Use your peripherals!"

She obeyed, stealing a quick glance out of the corner of her eye.

"Now, tell me what you see."

"That's only Lieutenant Reed, sir."

"I _know_ it's Lieutenant Reed! What about him?"

Corporal Fiona McKenzie bit her lip, desperately attempting not to roll her eyes at her commanding officer's current eccentricities. "It appears that he's getting his lunch tray, sir."

"Jesus Christ, McKenzie! I'm not blind!"

The young woman lost her battle with her battle with her senses, her pupils rolling back into her skull as she bit back a sarcastic comment. Retrieving her fork from below her, she shrugged. "Why don't _you_ tell me what's so special about Lieutenant Reed today, sir?"

Major Jeremiah Hayes leaned forward, glancing around the room before whispering conspiratorially, "He's_ happy_."

Corporal McKenzie sighed, her blonde ponytail swishing back and forth behind her. "What's so strange about that?"

"Think about who we're talking about here!" he hissed, placing a hand to the left of his mouth. Even if his whispers were barely concealed, it wasn't like any of mess hall could hear their exchange over the normal din of lunchtime conversation.

"Malcolm Reed can be happy, sir, just like anyone else on this ship."

"Yes, but…." He stole another glance at the armory officer, who was now in line with Ensign Cutler, his eyes bright and free hand waving as he regaled her with what must be an _extremely fascinating_ story. Yeah, right. Malcolm, entertaining? What explanation could there be for this sudden change in behavior?

Hayes had not expected Malcolm to be in such a good mood, considering how badly his attempt to apologize while still saving face had gone two days ago.

Around midday, he had sought him out in his makeshift office, knocking quietly on a wall panel before slipping in through the empty doorway. He immediately crossed his arms behind him, rolling his shoulders towards the ceiling. Jeremiah had seen him perform this gesture thousands of times and was familiar with the emotions that typically accompanied it. Determined to prolong his unease, he, too, crossed his arms, but remained sitting.

"Major Hayes," he began, nodding almost imperceptibly.

"Lieutenant Reed," he acknowledged his greeting while staring him directly in the eye. Several angry, red wounds still framed his face, giving the diminutive Briton an appearance not unlike a bruised plum. There was no doubt in his mind that this comparative likeness would become more realistic as their conversation continued and their frustration increased. Both men knew they were partially in the wrong, but no one of them was willing to admit it without a fight.

"How may I help you?" Hayes continued, never taking his eyes off of him.

"With all due respect, Major, it's really how_ I_ can help _you."_

He was taken aback by this swift, albeit a mite clichéd riposte, slowly leaning backwards in his desk chair. "I assume that this is about our little _dispute_ yesterday."

Malcolm laughed, a sharp, short bark. "That's not quite what I would call it." He gestured to the empty seat in front of his desk. "May I?"

"Go ahead," he granted, not waiting for prompt before saying, "I assume that you've come to me looking to apologize?"

Malcolm grinned, a tight smile that was so self-satisfied that Hayes dearly wanted to close the distance between them, once again connecting his fist with his cheek. "Why ever would I do that?"

"It's the expected response from one who is in the wrong," he explained, not enjoying the fact that he was losing control of the situation.

"I am seeking an apology from you, Major, but the recipient is not to be myself," he gesticulated to his own chest, "but to Captain Archer." He indicated the direction of the bridge.

"I have no intention of apologizing to the Captain," he stated firmly, narrowing his eyes.

"Strange. I can think of several reasons why you should," came the extremely pointed retort.

Hayes rose, leaning over his desk to bring his face within several centimeters of Malcolm's. "Are you threatening to blackmail me, Lieutenant?"

Reed mirrored his posture, placing his palms on the tabletop. "Not so much as blackmail as much as…_persuade."_

Hayes was silent for a moment, contemplating how he might respond to such a statement. He knew that Malcolm thrived on power as much as he did…to knock his confidence would surely set him off balance a bit, perhaps giving him the upper hand in the argument. It was undeniably easy to make the Lieutenant nervous with a series of small jabs and kicks, but Jeremiah sought to disarm his foe with one decisive blow. This must be precise, exact. His brow furrowed.

Malcolm, realizing that Hayes was in deep thought or otherwise waiting his next statement, cleared his throat. "It is typically the responsibility of the one at fault to take the blame for the incident."

That was it, it was time to strike. Straightening from his formerly hunched-over position, he scoffed. "Are you serious, Lieutenant? Captain Archer was quite clear when he said that he didn't care _who_ started it, as long as it was resolved." His tone of voice lowered suddenly, dangerously, "I honestly wish that you would have admitted your shortcomings earlier."

"What are you talking about, Major?" Malcolm spluttered, clearly caught off guard.

"It takes a certain type of man to accost me like this, here, in my office." He gestured with a broad arm around the room, which in reality was not much bigger than the bathroom in his quarters. "A paranoid man, one without scruples, who believes that he cannot simply move on, er, put the past behind him. You're passing your guilt about the incident over to me."

"You're mad!" Malcolm cried, "I am not the one who is at fault here!"

"Really, Lieutenant? As I recall, it was _you_ who made the first move that night."

Reed's brows knit together before he snapped, "And who was to say when the sparring ended and the fighting began?"

Major Hayes feigned indifference, rearranging some PADDs that had previously been strewn about his desk. "Oh, I'd say when the action entered the hallway."

"If the parameters are defined as such, I would say that you were the one who started it."

"That's not so, Lieutenant. You're the one who threw the shoulder roll that sent me sprawling out."

Malcolm's face seemed to grow even more crimson by the second. He clasped his fists to his sides, squeezing and releasing his grip over and over. His breathing labored as he attempted to control his mounting anger, he gasped, "Major, how could you be so ignorant?"

"Ah, Malcolm—"

"You shall address me by my rank, sir!" He exclaimed.

Jeremiah held up his palms, framing either side of his face in a rather unconvincing gesture of mollification. "I apologize, _Lieutenant_. I'm sure that you would agree, however, that conceding defeat is an effective communication skill for any officer."

"Of course I would! I had my training-I have my principles—"

"I'm not trying to argue with your experience, sir. Being the highly educated man that you are, I'm sure that you are used to solving disputes by way of spirited discussion and mutual concession—"

"—and a clearly defined respect for senior officers!" Malcolm interjected, slamming his palm down onto the desk for a second time. In response to that sudden output of force, a stray PADD was set into motion, sliding across the tabletop and dropping to the floor accompanied by the distinctive sound of shattering glass. Momentarily stunned, Malcolm watched as Major Hayes bent down to retrieve several of the shards, grunting audibly in the process. Returning to his previously upright position, he held out a few pieces to him. Malcolm's gaze fixated on his outstretched hand.

"Well, then, Lieutenant, I accept your apology," Hayes stated evenly.

Reed's jaw suddenly went slack, his fists unclenched. "Wha—I—ah—"

"Consider this a formally extended olive branch," Jeremiah once again offered him the broken PADD, shaking the bits in his palm. "Many people suffer from anger issues, and you're no different. Until you seek help from Phlox for some of these uncontrollable urges that you have, I see no need for us to have any further conversations about the matter."

"Major—I—don't ha—" he stammered, shaking with rage.

"If you wouldn't mind taking this to one of the Ensigns down in the laboratory, I could use it repaired, or replaced if necessary."

Numbly, Malcolm slid the glass fragments into his palm, biting his tongue to keep a smart remark from spilling out. As if operating on a hinge, he turned his torso towards the door and took a step towards it.

Hayes knew that he had but only one chance left to drive his point home. Clearing his throat, he added, "Oh, and if you see the Captain, I'm sure that you wouldn't mind telling him that—"

"Oh, fuck you!" Malcolm swore bitterly, throwing the glass pieces at his feet to form a glittering display of refracted light. Observing him looking backwards, if only for a split second, Major Hayes finally understood the gravity of the situation. Extreme provocation called for extreme reaction. He had managed to get to the staunch British armory officer. _He had won._

Leaning back in his chair in the mess hall, Jeremiah felt an intriguing mixture of confusion and self-satisfaction as he watched the armory officer retrieve a wrapped sandwich and a cup of sliced pineapple chunks from the queue. He had expected him to stay, further harassing young Cutler with his tedious tales of the academy or his boyhood in the south of England, but instead the man had turned, making a beeline once again for the doors of the mess hall as if he had somewhere better to be. A wide smile plastered across his face, there was a distinctive bounce in his step that Hayes had not noticed before. Wait—that was because it had not been there before. _Why in the hell was he so happy?_ Craning his neck to search the faces in the mess hall for the one he truly wanted to speak to, he crowed, "Cole!"

Another attractive female MACO made herself visible, standing up slightly in her chair across the room. Leaving her friends, Privates Myers and Parsons, at her table, she slid out from her seat and strode purposefully across the room over to the man that she called boss.

"Sir," she acknowledged, crossing her arms behind her back in a display of firm professionalism. Even though she was off duty and was now in her leisure clothes, Corporal Amanda Cole was nothing if not dependable.

"I have a job for you," Hayes stated, making direct eye contact with Corporal McKenzie across the table from him. Her cheeks burning in embarrassment, she glanced down at her plate. _This is what you get for letting your mouth run away with you, Fiona,_ she scolded herself, _now Hayes will never give you a special assignment again._

"I should hope that this would not interfere with my regular duties, sir."

He shook his head. "It will not." Indicating the direction of Malcolm's departure only second before, he commanded, "I want you to find out why Lieutenant Reed is in such a good mood."

Amanda relaxed visibly, her shoulders dropping all of an inch. She was glad that it was only that simple. But—

"Sir, with all due respect, this task doesn't seem very—"

"Important? Beneficial? Crucial to the mission?" When she nodded, he smirked. "I can assure you that it is. Take as much time as you need, as much time before Doctor Phlox comes around to put us all under tomorrow morning."

She bit her lip, clearly contemplating whether or not it was worth it to question her boss' opinion. Sensing her lack of surety, Hayes added, "That's an order, Corporal."

She dipped her head, casting a quick glance over at her friend, Fiona McKenzie. _Look at her, so lucky, she always gets to do the normal things,_ Amanda thought. _Why am I always the one who has to do his dirty work?_

"You may speak to Commander Tucker if you wish," her head snaps up. "I understand that he is good friends with Lieutenant Reed. Whatever Tucker knows, we may assume is the truth."

Amanda listened intently, trying desperately to restrain a smile from spreading unbidden across her face. So she would get to see the sexy, intelligent, swarthy chief engineer again—what an excellent completion to a so-so week! Throwing her shoulders back, she responded, "Yes, sir!" When Hayes said nothing else, she turned at ninety degrees and proceeded towards the door.

"Commander Tucker?" Lieutenant Anna Hess called out into the depths of the engineering room, her voice echoing about cavernous overhangs and bulkheads. Several ensigns turned to face her, questioning looks upon their youthful faces. Hess wasn't normally the one to cause a scene, even when she was searching for her superior officer, who was oddly absent at the moment.

Anna crossed the room to the comm device on the wall, punching it with more force than was necessary. "Hess to Commander Tucker, please respond." There was no reply.

She turned to face her coworkers, her voice rising in tone and in volume. "Has anyone seen him?" Young men and women all around the room shook their heads no. Heaving a tremendous sigh, Hess resigned to search for Commander Tucker the old fashioned way.

"Did the Captain send you here?" Crewman Michael Rostov questioned over the railing of the second tier of the room, traces of a Russian accent evident in his breathy tenor.

"Naw, Mike," Anna continued, "It's 1730 hours. His shift ended half an hour ago, and he was supposed to report to the armory with the specifications for the next round of system upgrades an hour ago."

"Pissing off Lieutenant Reed, no doubt," Ensign Caroline Keeley mumbled from behind a few cabinets. Beside her, her good friend Ensign Rivers snorted. "Those two can never get along, can they?" He asked quite rhetorically, handing her a PADD.

Ignoring the harmless gossip that permeated the conversations of her colleagues, Lieutenant Hess dashed to the back of the room, dodging several low-hanging arms of the ship's ventilation system. Turning into a short corridor, she reached towards the hatch of a nearby Jeffries tube. Thinking twice, she decided to knock. A moment later, she called out, "Commander Tucker? Are you in there?"

Nestled comfortably on several rungs within, Trip groaned inwardly. This was the third or fourth time that Anna had found him here, and, God bless her, she never questioned it. This was one of the few places on the entire ship where he could get some peace and quiet, away from communication devices or crewmen that were too curious about his personal life for their own good. At the moment, he craved solitude more than ever, as he contemplated his relationships with his parents…Jon…T'Pol_..Hoshi…_

Screwing his eyelids shut tight, he exhaled before responding, "Yeah, Anna, I'm here alright."

There was a moment of silence, and then, "I took the liberty of taking your upgrade information to Lieutenant Reed, sir."

"Good." Trip was quiet.

"I'm here to relieve you for beta shift, sir. I can take things from here." She pressed her ear to the access port, listening for any minute sound within.

"Thanks, Anna," he replied, taking a moment to admit her thoughtfulness. "You'll be relieved at 0100 hours."

"Yes sir," she acknowledged. Trip waited until he heard her retreating footsteps before opening the hatch and sliding out on outstretched toes. Shaking his shoulders a bit and running his chilled fingers over his rumpled uniform, he turned to beat a hasty retreat out of the main entrance to engineering, but decided against it. Such a departure would surely draw the attention of every officer in the room, and that was the last thing that he wanted. Finding another egress the way he came, through the abandoned Jeffries tube, he soon found himself exiting into an empty hallway on D Deck.

Trip looked to the left and to the right, and was grateful that a majority of alpha shift was now on their dinner break. After taking such extreme lengths to distance himself from his colleagues, he did not want to spoil the moment with a bit of forced social interaction. His quarters were not on this deck, but Tucker was willing to bet that he could reach them without being seen. Only a few moments—

"An unconventional way to get around, but I guess it counts," came the sound of a low, breathy feminine voice behind him.

_Shit._ Rotating on his heels, Trip turned to face no other than Amanda Cole.

"Hey, handsome. I haven't seen you much since our last training session." She took a step towards him, a disquieted smirk on her lips.

Trip held up a hand, dismissing her overtly familiar address. "Yeah, well, I've been really busy over in engineering."

"Too busy for more neuropressure?" She inquired, her lower lip pouting outwards a bit.

Trip shook his head. "Ya know we had to stop that, Corporal. It wasn't safe, for you _or_ me, it turns out." The double meaning was not lost on him.

"Please, call me Amanda," she pleaded, offering him a flirtatious smile, "We're both off duty, Charles."

Involuntarily, the chief engineer flinched. _Charles—that sounded so damn intimate the way she said that—almost like how—_

"I was wondering if you and Lieutenant Reed would be willing to accompany me to the next movie night," she leaned forward, laying a splayed palm on the wall abreast from his shoulder. Trip resisted taking a step backwards.

"I don't know. Movie night's been suspended for the time being, seeing how we're so near Azati Prime and catching up to the Xindi—"

"Pity," she interrupted sharply, abruptly. "Would the two of you like to hang out any other time?"

Trip shook his head once again, feeling like a bobblehead for the frequency of the act. "Nah, I've gotta lotta work to do and Malcolm has a more attractive option to a game of cards in the mess hall after duty shift." He grimaced at how close he had come to revealing something that only Hoshi and he knew about.

Her eyes lit up with interest, and she leaned further into Trip's personal space. "Really? Care to tell me about that? Is there a special project he's working on?"_ Something that Major Hayes might like to know about?_ She added silently.

He held up two hands, backing away slowly. "No..I mean…I—uh—I don't know. Listen, Amanda, I really have to go. I promised—uh—Hoshi! Yes, Hoshi…that I would help her make her way through some of the technical jargon in the Xindi's database."

She frowned minutely, her eyes clearly betraying her displeasure. "Oh…right. You'd better go, then. Do you have any idea where Lieutenant Reed might be?"

"His shift ends at 1900 hours, Amanda, so he's probably still in the armory." He replied absently, turning to leave, but her question made him stop. "Why are you so eager to find him, anyway?"

Her eyes widened for a split second before returning to their normal width. She stifled a shrug. "Hayes wanted me to ask him about possibly rescheduling the training sessions we're going to miss while we're knocked out." Proud of herself for coming up with a suitable excuse so quickly, she added a curt nod to her statement.

"Ah, alright…okay, then. I'll see you around, Amanda." Returning to his original intent, he made a beeline for the turbolift.

As soon as he was safely inside with the walls surrounding him, Trip let out a choked sob and leaned heavily against the bar on the wall. Amanda, T'Pol, Hoshi…three women, all very different. And he was sure that he would be far better off without any of them.

Yet…Amanda was gorgeous, sultry—with an attitude that made him do a pleasant double take when she opened her mouth. She was intelligent, brave, and what he usually would have gone for—if only she did not remind him so much of his departed sister, Elizabeth.

He raised a shaky finger to his cheek, wiping away the tears that had lodged themselves there. Would he once again reach for a familiar comfort, or would he explore new territory with the help of Hoshi Sato? It was true that he had been friends with the ensign since the beginning of their ten year mission, but he had only recently begun to see the gifted young Asian woman in a whole new light. That kiss—there was no denying that there was chemistry there. And now that they had shared that moment together, he couldn't help but admire her…the way her delicate fingers worked her way across the controls of her console, the way she cupped her earpiece while receiving a new communication. Not only that, but she was kind, compassionate, and _boy,_ she gave great advice.

He felt a blush creeping onto his cheeks in spite of himself. Did she _ever_ give great advice….

As the doors of the turbolift opened onto his chosen deck, he all but sprinted to his quarters. Collapsing into the armchair pushed against the wall, he attempted desperately to suppress the tears that were now freely flowing down his face.

And then there was T'Pol, the unique, exotic alien woman that had stolen his heart the very moment he met her. It wasn't only her full lips, her updrawn eyebrows, her soft, tanned skin, as smooth as chamois leather—it was the way she walked, the way she spoke to him, the sparkle he saw ever so frequently behind her eyes. She bewitched him, body and soul, and there was no denying that he was completely and indisputably in love with her. He had intended to spend the rest of his life with her, or the rest of his life in pursuit of the unattainable.

However, fate had thrown a wrench into his otherwise perfectly curated plans for the future. The Xindi had attacked, and his best friend had withdrawn from him, falling into himself as he failed to cope with the stress and obligation of his newest mission. In that way, Trip was left alone, left alone to endure the insurmountable process of grieving. What else was he to do besides throw himself into his work, becoming devoted to tracking down his sister's murderers, those sadists, those madmen? He had no other option, no other outlet for the tremendous, enveloping sense of despair that consumed him.

But, T'Pol…she had been there. She had always been there. Through the rescue missions, the personal dramas, the many botched attempts at first contact—the Vulcan had remained steadfastly at his side, undeterred by anything that might cross their path.

After many months, Trip had become aware of something new about the chief science officer—she did indeed have emotions, but him them, locked them away within a secure compartment inside her mind. There were split seconds where he could hear the jesting tone in one of her famous one-liners, or hear her grieve silently with the repressed alien race that they had come across that particular week. She had desire, she had passion, she had drive—and that is what had endeared her to Trip in the beginning. Below that carefully handled exterior, he knew that there was someone else. Someone that loved, cherished, treasured—and Trip had been determined to reveal her.

It hadn't been easy, with many of his so precipitously crafted dreams being dashed along the way, but for some reason Trip had always come right back to her—and he knew now that this reflex was useless, utterly hopeless. She was not capable of loving him back, and she never had been. To her, he had been an experiment, a helpless little plaything that she could manipulate to her latest whims. He was wasted three years of his life pining and longing for this woman, and it was now time to move on.

However, he wasn't sure that he could. He was willing to try, to make one last ditch plea for her devotion and her heart, to beg for the future that he knew they could have had together. He knew that her shift ended at 1800 hours. Glancing at the chronometer on the wall, he discovered that it was now nearing that time. Once again, Commander Charles Tucker stood up, ran his fingers through his hair, and took a deep breath.

It was time to work his magic, whether he must use Hoshi's plan or not.

"Hello, mother, father, how are you?" Malcolm spoke, trying to keep his tone as noncommittal and conversationally jovial as possible. Suddenly, he frowned. "Computer, erase."

Reed knew that he was skipping out on a majority of his afternoon shift for a ridiculous and extremely illegitimate reason, and he was well aware of the consequences that would await him if he was caught. He inhaled sharply and continued, "Computer, begin recording."

"Greetings, mother and father, I know that it's been a long time—Computer, stop." He closed his eyes, waving a hand about as he considered what he was going to include in his first letter home in the past eight months. There certainly was a lot to say, but there was also not a lot he was willing to say.

"Computer, continue. I know it's been a long time since my last correspondence, and I do apologize for the delay. As you can imagine, we've been busy—" That was certainly an understatement. "—and I am unsure when this message will be delivered, or even if you will receive it at all—" he paused, swallowing the rising lump in his throat.

"But our communications officer, Ensign Hoshi Sato, has guaranteed to me that she will try to ensure its delivery before St. Valentine's Day." He nodded tersely, knowing that his father would appreciate the insurance of promptness.

"I assure you that I am well. There's been no mention of a promotion yet, but I'm positive that it is forthcoming. I wouldn't trade my time on Enterprise for any rank in the navy," he added, and then paused as he considered deleting that last portion. His father never failed to mention that if only he had enlisted in the navy like he had done just out of secondary school, he would have been made a commander by now. Malcolm, however, bolstered by a powerful desire to explore the stars and hindered by an equally intense fear of the water, had enrolled in Star Fleet Academy. His father had never forgiven him. Even through all of his accomplishments-graduating top of his class, being chosen to head the armory on Earth's first warp five starship—Malcolm knew that there had always been something different expected of him. It was a good thing that he was just as or even more stubborn than his formidable father, Commodore Stuart T. Reed of Great Britain. Sure it was true that seven generations of men in the Reed family had served in the naval forces, but what was lineage when compared to destiny? Malcolm was confident in his decision and always had been, even if it meant becoming estranged from his father and his mother, Mary.

"How's Madeline? Is she still in veterinary school?" He leaned back, propping his feet onto his desk. His younger sister was only six years his junior, but had opted for a quite extensive course of study at Cambridge University and, at the time of their last communication, was only about halfway through the program. He had been strongly protective of her all throughout their childhood years, guarding her virtue and preventing her from getting into any trouble that might be avoided by taking into account the advice of a certain more experienced older brother. They had never fought bitterly like so many of the sibling pairs that he knew of, save for a few minor spats over television privileges, hoarded sweets, and the like. The two had remained supportive of each other's aspirations throughout their entire young lives. Madeline had even encouraged him to send his application to Star Fleet Academy shortly after his graduation from the local school, and had help him pack his belongings for transport as the lamentations and complaints from their parents made for some sort of steady background music for their work.

"Are there any handsome young gentlemen beating down your door asking for her hand yet?" He queried, chuckling softly to himself. They had often teased each other about the nonexistence of their respective love lives, but what would Madeline say if she knew about the significance of his current romantic relationship?

"Has Uncle Archie repaired that sorry-looking old boat that he had? Have you and mother purchased that holiday home in Machynlleth that you wanted?" He continued to make small talk as he fiddled around with the controls of his computer console, toggling back and forth between his inbox and his currently recording message. Switching back to his inbox once more, he was taken aback by the appearance of a new message.

The subject line contained a distinct, nonsensical sequence of letters that the Briton would have been able to recognize with his eyes closed. Sitting forward, he confirmed his suspicions:_ Harris_. Pressing a few buttons on the screen, the message was hurriedly deleted. No doubt that there would continue to be more sent just like it, but for now he could blame the increasingly poor communication abilities here in the Expanse.

"Please reply to this message soon. I'm sending my regards, mother, father, until we do meet again. Computer, stop." Hastily rambling off the last of his message, he closed the window, deciding that he could deal with that later.

This was the third communiqué that Malcolm had received from his former boss since their entrance into the Expanse six months ago. While distinctly aware of the lifetime commitment that had accompanied his induction into Section 31 many years ago while still only an ensign, he had hoped that he would not be called upon this soon. He had hoped that he could focus his attention on one central goal—hunting down and defeating the makers of the Xindi weapon—but that was now proving impossible. He knew that he would have to deal with the mounting pressures from his former agency of employment, but for now he was content to bide his time until it was absolutely necessary.

Heaving a tremendous sigh, he stood, briefly considering heading to the gym for a run to rid of his excess nervous energy. However, T'Pol would be here soon enough, and he did not want to be in a foul mood when she arrived. Gathering his scraps from his forgotten lunch, he made a hasty resolution: he would meet her in the laboratory, where she would undeniably be considering that it was still nearly half an hour from the conclusion of her shift, and ask her if she would like to spend the night with him. Eight hours with the woman he loved in his arms—even if nothing better suited to his imagination occurred, it was certainly preferable to sitting in his quarters alone, in hushed, nervous contemplation.

Taking a moment to lock his computer console, Lieutenant Malcolm Reed headed in that direction, praying that he would not run into any additional stressors along the way.

_to be continued_


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Alright, I know that this is not what you all were promised. By the time I finished writing what was going to be chapter six, it was nearly thirty pages long on Microsoft Word. So, I decided to split it into three parts and spend some quality time editing the last two parts down. I know that this is short, but hopefully it is all that you guys wanted from a confrontation scene and more. Be warned that there is profanity here; I don't want to damage anyone's virgin eyes. :P Thanks as always to my faithful readers and reviewers-especially BonesBird, LoyaulteMeLie, CoolGIRL2012, and Belen09. Things to (probably) look forward in the next installment of RDWO: gratuitous RTP fluff as they finally have the conversation that we've all been waiting for, Trip going to see Hoshi to vent about his feelings and receiving quite the reality check about his little problem with whining, Amanda debating whether or not to tell Hayes what she's seen (or heard, rather), and tons and tons of third person introspection.

**Right Direction, Wrong Occasion**

**Chapter Six **

Commander T'Pol of Vulcan stood at attention, her eyes on the view screens before her. To the left, images taken from the Xindi star charts; to the right, a real-time diagram of this region of space as her people knew it. Needless to say, the map on the right of her line of vision was far less detailed. Determined to locate and remedy every discrepancy between the two, she had lost track of how many of her hours she had spent here, in the tiny room adjoining the science department's laboratory, agonizing and laboring over one of the most crucial clues to finding the creators of the weapon. Although Captain Archer had insisted that the matter did not require any more of her valuable time, she had simply insisted. The ever-changing state of the Expanse demanded her unyielding attention, and besides, playing the waiting game until their arrival at Azati Prime left the Vulcan ill at ease. She needed something, anything, to occupy her time.

Her people usually valued their abilities for personal introspection and firm solipsism above all other principles, but some elements of self-doubt and skepticism had managed to sneak into her normally stream-lined thought process over the last few months. She now knew that in this section of space, as with any other, anything and everything was possible. The Vulcan High Command did not believe in time travel—but she did. Many of her people did not want to believe that a race could be so malevolent, so fundamentally evil, that they would endeavor to destroy an entire planet of people, but she had been forced to acknowledge that distinct possibility. It was true that once, before the dawn of the modern recorded age, her people had been violent, feral, their natural instincts driving them to fight and kill for every resource. Now inclined to forget about that time in history, her people tended to turn a blind eye towards the more malignant of beings, tending to instead focus on those groups that possessed the same innate sense of logic and progression as they did. Or, what could pass as a facsimile of it.

T'Pol sighed, her shoulders lowering a quarter of an inch. Her shift ended in approximately ten minutes, and she had not yet made any significant discoveries. This was most unusual for her, as words such as industrious and productive were pretty much synonymous to her very name. No substantial evidence had revealed itself, no new developments had occurred during these past eight hours. She sniffed as waves of disappointment flowed through her like the current on an Earth river that she had once seen. There wasn't much for her to do, but the scientist, always driven, wished that she could do more. Captain Archer had been very clear that her duty had been fulfilled, but she wasn't so sure.

There was a faint woosh behind her, and the sound of two heavy boots making contact with the deck plating. A familiar scent washed over her, carrying memories and reminiscences very much bittersweet in nature. She inhaled, held in the oxygen, and then released it. She knew who it was even without turning around. "Commander Tucker."

The footsteps stopped. There was a shuffling noise as he shifted from foot to foot. "T'Pol, I gotta speak with ya."

"My shift is not yet over," she reminded him, crossing her arms in front of her chest. Although her back was still turned to him, she could sense the offense that he had taken to her statement. Residual effects of a bond not entirely solidified were still coursing through her.

He sighed. "I know that, but it just can't wait."

She looked at her feet before screwing her eyelids shut tightly._ Malcolm._ She loved Malcolm, not this man. So why did he have such great power over her?

"Mr. Tucker," she resigned to referring to him by this more common address, although she knew that it was not the one he preferred. "I would prefer to have this conversation at another time."

He paused. "So you know why I'm here?"

She back pedaled in her thoughts, quickly responding, "I assumed that you wish to discuss the status of our relationship."

Unclenching his jaw, he succumbed to the intense feelings of relief that now flooded his head and gut. He circled the room to stand before her, silently bidding her to look him in the eye.

"T'Pol," he whispered. "What exactly…what _are_ we?"

She swallowed harshly, surprised to feel tears suddenly on the cusp of being spilled. Her cravings for Trellium had returned, and she was once again reminded of the fact that she had not partaken in her favorite vice for quite a few days now. The night of the incident, she managed to recall…

Her voice was strained as she replied, "We're _nothing,_ Commander Tucker."

He stumbled backwards a step, eyes widening. "But…T'Pol, I love you. You're all I ever think about, ever since the mission began—"

She interrupted him sharply, raising a delicate hand to cut him off. "Commander, although I acknowledge that you do harbor some romantic feelings towards myself, they are not reciprocated."

It was as if all of the breath had been crushed out of his lungs. He shook his head. "No. I…_felt_ you. I know how you feel about me…don't even try to deny—"

"I believe that I am doing so right now," she interjected, "I do not wish to have further contact with you, sexual or otherwise." She was aware of how harsh she was being with him; in a futile attempt to retreat once again behind her stoic Vulcan façade, she found that her cravings had set her off balance. Desperately trying to remedy the situation, she continued, "I was not lying when I said that it was only an experiment."

Trip let out a short, sarcastic bark of laughter. "Are you even aware how much you mean to me?" When she didn't respond, he sustained, "You're my everything, T'Pol. I'm consumed, but only with thoughts of you. Please, I could—" Subconsciously, he reached for her, aiming to trace a shaky palm down her cheek.

She recoiled from his reach, her heart rate suddenly increasing. "Nothing you say could convince me otherwise. I am confident in my decision, Commander."

His breath caught in his throat, and his voice suddenly increased sharply in pitch. Relentless in his pursuit of her, he stepped into her personal space, endeavoring to grasp her forearm. "Why don't you call me Tri—"

"Do not touch me!" She hissed, slapping at the backs of his hands.

Several things happened at that moment. Trip reached out for her other arm, causing her to stumble back a few more steps. T'Pol became aware of how much she was shaking, the cold tremors racking her body. Just as his other hand made contact with the fabric of her uniform, the door slid open.

"Commander Tucker!" The British armory officer exclaimed, crossing the room in several long strides.

"Malcolm! I—" He gasped, falling away from her.

"Are you not capable of taking hints?" He demanded of him, drawing the trembling Vulcan into his arms. "I could report you for this!"

"I could also report you!" He gestured helplessly towards the couple, noticing that T'Pol had just buried her forehead into his neck.

"Oh, please!" He cried. "Two senior officers engaging in a romantic relationship is much less of an offense than the goddamn chief engineer assaulting the first officer on duty shift!" As T'Pol strained to hold him back, Malcolm lunged towards him. "You bastard, you're no different than that Tolaris—"

"Don't even try that with me, Lieutenant! You've known that I'm in love with her for as long as we've been on Enterprise! I care about her, obviously unlike you—"

"How dare you!" He shouted, his voice reaching a fever pitch.

"Malcolm—" T'Pol pleaded feebly as he burst from her arms.

"Who's never given up on her? Even when she was fucked up beyond all belief from the away mission on the Seleya? Who dares to stick with her even when she's under extreme emotional distress that was caused by none other than the man in front of me?!"

"She had sex with me, Mal! Freely and by her own volition! Whatever happened between you, whatever you've done, it doesn't mean shit—"

"Is that all you care about?" He admonished him, "A quick romp in bed? Let me tell you something, she's devoted to me even if I don't offer to put out for her! Listen, I don't care what you may have done in the past, I don't care what the hell your problem is, but this massive overcompensation has to stop—"

"Overcompensation, huh? You're one to talk! Enlighten me, oh brilliant one, what exactly am I overcompensatin' for?"

"THE DEATH OF YOUR SISTER!" Malcolm roared, his face only inches from Trip's. The room became deathly quiet. A hand clasped to her mouth, T'Pol leaned back against one of the view screens, trying to keep the tears from spilling out. She was truly helpless in this situation, she believed that she could do absolutely nothing to—

"You son of a bitch," Trip murmured, shaking his head and stepping back. Malcolm, quickly realizing his misstep, held up two hands towards him.

Trip began to speak before he could remedy the situation. "So, you think that I'm acting on some pent-up aggression here? That my desire to get back at my sister's murderers has something to do with _that woman_?" He gestured broadly towards her, noticing that she was crying, damp rivulets forming on her cheeks. His voice grew progressively quieter. "Well, let me tell you something." He stepped towards him, his nose nearly bumping into Reed's. "Enjoy her," he spat, "because it sure as hell won't last. Nothing good ever does. We're really familiar with that idea, aren't we?" His question was rhetoric; they all knew what he was referring to. "I can't believe you. Do you really think I'm _that_ shallow?"

Malcolm shook his head wordlessly, not being able to formulate what he deemed to be a proper response. Clearing his throat, he narrowed his eyes. "Get out."

Trip nearly scoffed, almost questioning what exactly would give Lieutenant Reed the authority to demand such a thing of him. Looking over the Briton's shoulder, his eyes fell on T'Pol. Her entire body was hunched over, returning his gaze with wide, frightened eyes. Was it worth it to see her under so much duress? He decided that it was not. Although every fiber of his being was urging him to remain there, fight for her, beg for her forgiveness, he instead acknowledged Malcolm with a curt nod.

"Fine, have it your way," he relented, backing up slowly. "I'm gone." Turning around to approach the door, he could not resist one last jab. "Enjoy my sloppy seconds, Malcolm."

As soon as he was gone, Reed turned to face T'Pol, who looked extremely worse for wear. The tears that had been so freely flowing down her cheek only a few moments ago were now stayed, replaced with a penetrating stare that he knew so well. Her dark eyes, heavily lidded, betrayed her false confidence; fighting her emotions for the duration of the conversation had been difficult. So consumed by the desperate struggle to hold her emotions at bay, she had not said a word the entire time. She was adrift, the familiar feeling of numb slowly spreading over her. Letting out a small gasp, she surrendered herself to Malcolm's crushing embrace.

Pressing her cheek into his neck, she could faintly hear his heartbeat, drumming out a stark descant. She did not like to be coddled, to be so weak in the face of adversity; but now, emotionally spent, she felt compelled to do no more than let herself be held by the man that she called her own.

Nuzzling into her hair, Malcolm choked out a small whisper, "Darling…" She stirred, raising her head so that they were almost nose to nose. "I'm sorry," he continued, reaching up to stroke her brow.

She shook her head, adamant. "You should not be," tensing up, she frantically tried to counteract the sensations that were now coursing through her. "Commander Tucker…he…"

"Shhh," he murmured, pressing her to his chest once again. "Love, what's the matter with us?"

She knew what he was really trying to ask. "I do not know. We may only hope that the rest of the crew does not choose to have a similar reaction." In a flash, his eyes met hers. She could see the faint amusement in his expression, mixed with a liberal dose of worry and concern. _He knows,_ she surmised,_ he knows that I would not normally carry such an emotional response to an event like this. He's worked with Trellium-D before, it is a distinct possibility that he could be familiar with the symptoms—_

The crisp tones of his clipped accent interrupted her thoughts. "I would much appreciate some company tonight." Pulling her upwards to press his forehead against hers, he mumbled, "And I think you would as well."

She blinked. His proposal was not sexual in its intent, she was sure, but instead entailed the promises of comfort and a night free of worry. It was true, she did not desire to be alone tonight. Standing on her tiptoes to place a chaste kiss on his lips, she replied, "That would be agreeable."

Only a few yards away, safely hidden behind the wall of a transition junction that connected the Xindi star chart room to the rest of the science lab, Corporal Amanda Cole stood, ear pressed to the partition. She had been on another errand for Major Hayes, delivering a progress report to Commander T'Pol on the latest round of improvements for the ship-wide security system, when she heard shouting in the next room over. Stopping in her tracks, she had crouched down to the ground and listened. There was a smooth Southern drawl, a proper British accent, and….

_Oh my god._

It wasn't looking like she would have to talk to Lieutenant Reed after all.

_to be continued_


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Well, long time no see! I apologize for the delay, I only got around to editing this within the past few hours. I'm only sixteen and a sophomore, so finals and end of course exams are quickly catching up with me. That being said, during the summer you'll wish that you'd be able to shut me up. I'll probably get around to two more Dead Stop ficlets this weekend, and then Chapter 8 will be up the following weekend. After six straight chapters of mostly angst, I decided that you all deserved one chapter that was so fluffy that it resembled a pile of stuffed animals. Here it is. Indulge your feels. Don't look for any serious meaning behind it. Many thanks to all of my reviewers and followers, especially Shin. News about where I'm going with this next time. Obviously I'm bad at following my promises for what is coming next week, so I'll just try and sum it up within a few words so that you don't expect much out of me. Amanda. Hayes. Hatchery. Section 31. Jon.

**Right Direction, Wrong Occasion**

**Chapter Eight**

"You didn't deserve any of that, darling," he admonished, shaking his head. "It's completely illogical to feel guilty about what happened."

She winced inwardly at his misshapen use of one of her most frequent colloquialisms, but he continued, saying, "If anyone should be feeling remorse, it should be me."

"Malcolm—" she began, attempting to cover his trembling lips with the fingers of her right hand.

He caught them, kissing the pads of her fingertips. Between ministrations, he mused, "What was I thinking? What happened in there—it had nothing to do with his sister! I was way out of line! I was just—" he paused, catching his breath. "I was only concerned that he might hurt you, or that I might lose you…"

"Malcolm," she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. "If we have denied our affection for each other for this long, _how_ could you expect me to deny you after the events of this evening?"

He beheld her for several seconds, this stunning, magnificent individual that he hoped to spend his life with. Winding his arms around her waist, he pulled her closer, burying his nose into the hollow at the base of her neck. Inhaling slowly, he took in her scent, wishing with all of his might that he could freeze this moment in time and remain here forever, in bed snuggled up with the woman he loved. Feeling her relax into his embrace, he placed a few kisses on the side of her throat, murmuring, "Let's not waste any more time."

"Agreed," she shivered, effectively melting further into his arms. Placing a hand on either of his cheeks, she pulled his face up to hers, weakening his resolve with a slow, passionate kiss. As his fingers crept under the hem of her pajama top, she crushed herself against him, determined to make up for any and all of said wasted time. It did not matter to her that she had been intimate with another man only three days prior; this was right, this was predestined, this was meant to be…

Within a sudden burst of stamina, she flipped him over, straddling his waist. She could see the surprise in his expression, mixed in with unadulterated shock, and, yes, arousal. Leaning down to cover his lips with her own, she could feel the evidence of this as surely as the Las'hark rose high above the deserts of Vulcan in the still of the early morning. Pinning his wrists down with her strong fingers, she did not detect any resistance from the man until he sat up suddenly, pushing her away with outstretched arms.

"T'Pol…oh my god…we can't…" His plea came in short, breathy gasps. She felt fleeting waves of desire ripple through her; she was pleased to have that effect on him. Rolling to the side to sit on her haunches, she offered him an elevated eyebrow.

"Why can we not?" she inquired, folding her hands into her lap.

"You and Commander Tucker…only three days ago…" He trailed off, as if astonished that she was not in accordance with his protest.

"I did not care for him the way I care about you, Malcolm." T'Pol was puzzled. Only moments ago he had seemed eager to be intimate with her.

"Yes, well, you could have fooled him," he gave her a sideways look, noticing the forlorn expression on her face. Leaning forward, he cupped her cheek with one of his large hands. "Darling, look at me."

Her gaze flickered upwards, and he was dismayed to see her discontent there. He opted for the assuasive approach. "Let's not rush things either." She moved towards him, eyes darting this way and that. Slowly, cautiously, she cuddled up to him again, burying her forehead into his neck. As his arms closed around her waist, together they once again fell backwards onto the sheets, the springs of the mattress squelching in protest.

He planted a chaste kiss into her hair, murmuring, "After all, the longer we wait, the better the moment will be." Indubitably, he felt her shiver at this declaration, whether in anticipation or the lack of it. He shared her enthusiasm about this occasion; although he doubted that he could become more bewitched by the beguiling Vulcan science officer even if he tried. _How satisfying to finally have a purpose!_

His eyelids were beginning to feel heavy. The previous day, he and T'Pol had remained awake late into the night as she regaled him with the details and finer points of the magnitude of their relationship. If they were to make love, a bond would be solidified, one that many Vulcan couples had initiated over the civilization's expansive history. Once the mating bond had been set in, it was for all intents and purposes inescapable—they would be able to sense each other's thoughts and emotions, their trials and tribulations would become shared. If they had been bound by her home world's legislation, they would be considered married. Malcolm's heart leapt a bit at that statement, and at the moment he decided that it would benefit the both of them if they were to take things slowly. Stalwartly stuck in the Terran notion of a lengthy period of dating followed by an equally extensive engagement, he decided to prolong the current arrangement as long as he could. It wasn't as if he didn't want to spend the rest of his days with this woman; Malcolm just couldn't imagine embarking on such a cultural oddity of a relationship without clinging onto some of the most basic principles that made him human. In fact, he resolved that as soon as the colossal mess with the Xindi was sorted out, he would take the time to court his Vulcan bride accordingly—flowers from the hydroponics lab, dates on movie nights—hell, he would even risk chastisement from the Captain and host a candle-lit dinner in his quarters. Whatever it took to ensure that the spark, the heat of attraction that they now felt, would never die.

But, for now, the British armory officer was satisfied to only hold her in his arms, to feel the gentle thrumming of her heart and the shallow pulsations of her chest as she breathed in and out. It was a sensation akin to pure, unadulterated bliss. How much time had passed? One hour? Two? He could feel every muscle in his body relax as sleep began to overtake him, threatening to swallow him whole beneath the great, cavernous precipice of slumber. Faintly, distantly, he heard the computer console on his desk beep repeatedly, announcing the rapid succession of several new correspondences. Whatever it was, it would have to wait. It was going to take a monumental tragedy or some other act of divine intervention to move Lieutenant Malcolm Reed from his position that night.

Commander Charles Tucker dashed through the corridor of the Enterprise, determined to not cross paths with anyone. Considering that a majority of the crew had just come off of their shifts, that particular goal would be mostly unattainable. He did indeed jog past several colleagues, offering them only a weak hello or a hand half waved. He turned his head to the right, counting doors as he jogged past. Six…seven…eight…there. Pressing the small red button to the side of the door panel, he waited a few moments before he heard a small, cautious voice from within: "Who is it?"

He exhaled, a fraction of the tension that had built up in his bulk over the past hour or so releasing itself. "Hosh', it's me, Trip. Open up."

There was a pause, then the sound of two slippered feet approaching the wall, and then the gentle woosh of the door paneling separating. Ensign Hoshi Sato stood, clad in sweatpants and a loose athletic shirt, her hair hanging loose about her shoulders. She offered Trip a feeble, elevated hand in greeting before leaning heavily against the doorframe. Exhaustion was in her eyes and in her posture; ever since the attack on Earth, this state among the crew was perpetual. It seemed to Trip that no matter how much sleep he got the night before, his ass was_ always_ dragging the next morning. Twelve to fifteen hour shifts didn't exactly help the situation.

"Hey, Trip," she greeted him with a soft smile, before noticing how tightly his hands clutched his sides and what a vivid shade of crimson his face was. Not demanding any further explanation, the slender young woman stepped aside and allowed him to enter her quarters.

Ducking slightly under the doorframe, he allowed his eyes to dart around the small room for a moment. Hoshi's bed, as usual, was impeccably made, the covers drawn tautly over her pillow. A row of thick books crested her bunk's alcove along with a framed picture of a Japanese couple resting on twin parlor chairs. _Her parents,_ Trip surmised, his train of thought drifting to a similar photo that lay on his desk back in his own quarters. How were his parents? Had they moved in with his aunt and uncle? Had they bothered to rebuild their home, the stark white split level with a porch that they so often sat on to watch Trip and his siblings play in the yard? He hadn't received a correspondence from them since…since….

_The attack._ It didn't matter how much time had passed; he would never forget where he had been the moment that he had heard about the utter decimation of his hometown, seen the destruction displayed for all to see on the news program that was being broadcasted via satellite from Earth. Nearly four months since the death of Elizabeth, and in that time he had traveled halfway across the galaxy, been cloned, nearly died several times, had had the woman he loved and lost her. Just four months for his life to completely change—but what lot did that matter when he wasn't sure that he would live to see his family again, let alone see the next duty shift? Subtly, slowly, several fat tears began to drip down his cheeks, leaving wet trails of emotion in the wake.

"Commander, are you—," Hoshi took a step in his direction, hesitating for a brief second before deciding to hell with protocol and wrapping her arms around him.

Tucker leaned into her embrace as his weeping intensified, pressed his cheek to her ear and he desperately tried to confine the lamentations that presently racked his body. Eventually he acquiesced, allowing his shoulders to drop and sobs to escape from his lips unrestrained. He wasn't only weeping for an opportunity gained and mislaid—his expression of grief was in honor of his sister, his childhood friends, his confidence and innocence lost. Silently he was chastising himself severely for his unbidden and extreme display of emotion, wishing vainly that he had been able to be stronger…tougher…more resilient…for his crew, for his friends, for his sister…

"What did she say to you?" Hoshi questioned quietly, rubbing his upper back in a negligible gesture of comfort. She, too, sensed that this swift, passionate breakdown was about more than an argument with a former girlfriend and her new lover. Thrust into such a poignant situation with incalculable magnitude, Hoshi knew that she had to tread carefully.

"It's what she didn't say," Trip choked on his words as Hoshi led him the few steps to her bunk. The two sank into the cushioned bedspread, still enveloped within a profound embrace.

After several seconds, she continued her inquiry. "What happened? Did you go through with the plan?"

"Y-yes…I went to her to ask her what we were an'…I meant to jus' come right out with it…I wanted to move to touch her…to feel the strength of the bond that we thought was there…but then…" Presently, the chief engineer was wiping his cheeks, inhaling in great gulps of oxygen to steady his breathing.

Something clicked in Hoshi's mind, a minor detail that had escaped her contemplation until now. Many a night, Lieutenant Reed and Commander T'Pol could be seen in the mess hall, enjoying a leisurely evening meal together. They never touched, never so much as made an action that would have raised suspicion, but the frequency of the act was enough to make the communications officer wonder. Since the Commander and she got off of their shift at the same time, that would mean that—

"He came in to see her, didn't he?"

Trip nodded quietly, sullenly. Discovering that his sleeves were now thoroughly soaked through with his own tears, he then let out a short bark of laughter. "Damn. I _gotta_ stop doin' this."

Hoshi smirked, indicating her amusement. "Answer the question, Trip."

"Yes," he acknowledged her, "and he ran right over to her and wrapped her in this big bear hug and started yellin' at me like there was no tomorrow." He grimaced at the memory.

"Did he have some valid points?" Hoshi prompted, interrupting his revelry. She had had no idea how she became was pretty much amounted to a shrink to this man, her shipmate, her superior. What could have possibly endeared her to him in the first place?

"He really has always been there for her, whether she appreciated it or not," He mused, running his fingers through his clipped blonde hair. "Although he had the guts to tell me that I must be tryin' so hard to get T'Pol back because I'm _overcompensatin'_ for my sister's death." His voice was insinuating and dripping with sarcasm.

Hoshi winced. She had never known Malcolm to be that rude on purpose. Mirroring the Commander's Indian-style posture on her bed, she probed, "And what did you say back to him?"

"I told him to enjoy my sloppy seconds," Trip replied, grinning sheepishly. Hoshi's eyes widened before closing suddenly in disbelief. When they reopened, he was shrugging. "yeah, not one of my finest moments."

Hoshi's fingers found her temples shortly before threading into the raven tresses at the base of her scalp. She had to find a way to express the one thought that now ran through her mind without offending the man before her. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

Trip scoffed, and for a second she believed that he might deny her request. Instead, he only gestured with a broad arm across the room. "What do you think we're doin', Hoshi? Yeah, yeah, o' course, go ahead."

"Listen, Trip," she straightened her spine a fraction of an inch to steady her breathing, "I really look up to you, I honestly do, and most of the crew does as well. But, really," she hesitated, peering up at him with inclusive eyes, "you need to grow a pair."

Trip was taken aback. Lurching away from her, he managed to stutter, "Wha—what?"

Hoshi held up either hand, trying to remedy whatever unmentionable offense that she had just committed. "No, no, don't get me wrong, you're a great engineer, a great leader, and a really great friend. It's just that there's no need to be upset about the situation as you are right now." Her goal of coming out of the conversation with both her and Trip's emotional sanctity intact had been all but forgotten.

"Hosh'," he began, leaning back towards her. "You don't think that I don't already know that I'm being a bit of a wimp about this?" Not waiting for her to respond, he continued, "Believe me, I'm aware. I've just had a hard time keepin' a cap on my emotions since—"

"Trip," she interrupted him sharply, not wanting him to finish that particular train of thought. "We all have. Some more than others. It's all in the way you decide to cope with it."

She could practically see the wheels in his head turning. "So…you're sayin'…I just need to _suck it up?"_ He intoned the last three words as how one might say _male-impregnating Xyrillian._

"Well…no," she backtracked in her thoughts, before deciding to press forward in her intent. "But…yes." Hoshi shook her head, the ends of her dark locks whipping about her cheeks. "All I'm going to say is…some problems cannot be solved overnight."

"Well, damn, Hosh'. I know that! Look at where we are—"

She extended her palms toward him once more, this time imploring him to let her finish her train of thought. "T'Pol's a thoughtful person. I mean, she takes her time in making decisions and a long time to talk herself out of one that she's made. This thing with Lieutenant Reed—it may last a week, it may last six months or ten years. You need to be prepared for every eventuality, and be able to move on if she doesn't choose you in the end." Satisfied that she had finally completed her spiel, Hoshi nodded tersely.

Trip eyed her dubiously, and looked for all the world as if he was about to ask if she really expected him to do that. Some seconds later, he acquiesced, took a deep breath, and responded, "I guess that you're right. Focus on the mission, the matter at hand, stuff like that."

"Yes," she offered him a blinding smile, as if to assure him that she meant no offense by her next comment, "You're more tolerable to the rest of the crew if you aren't being a whiny little bitch."

Trip's mouth dropped open, and a strangled sound escaped from his throat. The moment seemed to freeze in time, Hoshi wondering whether he would take some grave discretion to her statement or whether he would find it as humorous as she did. Thankfully, it was a latter. His eyes crinkled up a bit at the corners, before he doubled over with his hand clutching his stomach. Hoshi was then privy to something that not a lot of her colleagues had witnessed as of late: Commander Charles Tucker emitting a brash, weighty belly laugh.

Hoshi blinked several times before she found that she, too, was chuckling at how amusing this entire encounter had been. Fully letting down her guard, she succumbed to the tremendous barrage of giggles that were welling up within her. Soon, she joined Trip in his immense display of mirth, only stopping when stitching pains had crept their way up her sides and tears of joy and hilarity stained her cheeks. She came back to reality to find her companion gazing at her appreciatively, amicably.

"Thanks, Hosh'. God, I needed that." Stepping around her, he began to make tracks towards the door of her quarters. She suppressed a sigh of discontent. She found that she quite enjoyed Trip's company, even if she was acting as his therapist a great deal of the time.

He opened the door with a press of a button and took a step out into the corridor. Turning back to her, he asked, "Breakfast tomorrow mornin', whaddya say? We could sneak in a little time before Phlox comes to put us all down."

"Sure, Commander," she answered, deliberating whether that was the remnants of a moment's display of mirth or a pale blush that now graced her cheeks. Shifting from foot to foot, she added, "0730 hours, it's a date."

Trip nodded, then appeared to become lost in his own for a moment. After not so much as a second thought, the chief engineer leaned in and placed his lips on her cheekbone.

A second later, they were gone, and their owner was presently swaggering down the hallway towards the turbolift, the recently absent spring in his step returning in strength. Allowing herself the briefest of instants to observe him saunter away, Ensign Hoshi Sato retreated back into her room and fell onto her bunk with an exhalation and a sigh.

_to be continued_


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: I had a sudden burst of inspiration and banged this out for you all! I'm not very good at following up on my promises, so forgive the fact that Section 31 is only briefly mentioned through here; Mal will wake up from a four-day nap in the next chapter and decide that it's finally time to answer his messages. He's going to receive an extremely demanding request, to put it lightly. I've been receiving questions as to what Hoshi's motive is, and that shall be explained in chapter 9 as well, along with another brief Trellium interlude and the exposition for Hatchery. I hope you'll forgive my horrible excuse for a Hayes-Archer scene; putting some of Archer's stress in terms of his relationship with Erika along with the mission just makes more sense to me. This is probably the last mention of Hayes and Amanda in this fic; enjoy them while you can.

Also, be forewarned: it has been decided that there will be a MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH in one of the closing chapters. If you value your feels and/or sanity, you may want to stop here. Let's just say that the events of Azati Prime don't exactly go off without a hitch, especially for the senior officers...

Wow, this is a long author's note. I will continue to apologize for my crappy writing style and penchant for describing every little detail to death. I don't know why you all put up with me. (:

**Right Direction, Wrong Occasion**

**Chapter Eight**

She is running, though she knows not why.

She is fleeing, but she knows not how.

There is not up or down, neither right nor left. There is no indication that this nightmare, this facsimile of veracity, is anything less than the cold, unyielding state of reality. For T'Pol, it is her own personal hell. In this place, where the light deems it unworthy to shine and logic fails even the staunchest of rational solipsists, she waits in terror and horrified anticipation for the inevitable.

This same dream, over and over; this same dream every single evening. It repeats itself without variation or addition; without mercy and without fail. It is predictable. She should not find herself as unsettled in the morning as she ultimately is. Tonight, the illusion begins per the norm. It is dark, the pitched blackness of the naught penetrating even the basest of forms, until the tactical alarm sounds with a sharp peal that rouses her from her fitful slumber. Gasping and sputtering, she tumbles from her bunk and dazedly makes her way over to her closet. She struggles to slip her mauve uniform over her pajamas as the deck plating bucks and vibrates beneath her. Even in her room, tucked within the heart of E Deck and shielded in the protective nearness of her colleagues' quarters, she can hear the distinct reverberations of enemy fire, striking the hull or whizzing past the saucer section with incredible closeness.

In the corridor, crewmen are running everywhere, colliding with each other in their haste to make it to their stations. Increasing the speed of her gait to a pace a bit more rapid than usual, she slid into a turbolift crowded with her associates just ahead of the closing doors. Fingers reached for the buttons indicating C Deck, G Deck, B Deck, A Deck, all desperate and frantic to reach their destinations. She could nearly smell their fear, ripe and pungent in the aroma of a hunted prey endeavoring to escape the reaches of a voracious predator. There was sweat, adrenaline, and even tears evading the emotional strongholds of an ensign near her. Some had opted to slip through the extensive system of Jeffries tubes that crisscrossed the ship's interior, but for those without an intimate knowledge of this convenient method of transport, there was the only option, however inefficient it may prove to be.

It seemed like an eternity, but eventually the doors of the lift opened out onto the bridge, and T'Pol noticed with a significant amount of dismay that she had been the last to arrive. Ensign Travis Mayweather, a considerable amount of blood leaking from a gaping wound on his forehead, was frenziedly manipulating the controls on his console in a fruitless attempt to evade the weapons of the Xindi ship that appeared prominently in the view screen. Hoshi Sato, whose thick black hair had fought its way from the rubber band that she had been using to secure it, was punching buttons before her and calling out damage reports that were only now coming in.

"Multiple casualties…six from engineering, at least one fatality…" she shouted over the din of combat, her eyes falling on her superior officer that had arrived seconds before, "Captain Archer is among the injured!"

T'Pol felt her stomach lurch as she stumbled a few steps closer to the chair on the elevated dais. Instinctively, its previous occupant rose to receive her. _Malcolm._

He regarded her with an expression that conveyed the direness of the current situation. "They came out of nowhere, Commander! We had no time to go to warp before—"

"I'm reading multiple hull breaches on B and C Deck…entire sections are depressurizing…" hollered the crewman regularly assigned to T'Pol's station during gamma shift. Although normally very competent, he appeared to be tired, harried, and completely overwhelmed.

"Lieutenant! We've lost our aft torpedoes!" reported Malcolm's man, gripping tightly his chair as the floor lurched beneath him. His eyes widening with concern, Reed turned to approach the tactical console.

"Mayweather!" T'Pol called out into the quickly deteriorating lightness of the bridge, but the look in his eyes she could distinctly see was one of unequivocal terror.

Obscured by the accumulating smoke and steam flowing into the room, he coughed multiple times before he was able to gasp out, "The helm controls are locked up! I can't…I've tried…"

"We're reading power junction overloads on D, C, B, and—"

The young man had no time to finish his statement before the floor beneath Lieutenant Reed exploded suddenly, releasing a fan of sparks and flame that carried with it enough propulsion to hurl the unsuspecting and unwary officer across the room.

T'Pol awoke with a start, her anguish shattering into the pillow underneath her head. No, that's not how it went—it was she who always died, not him! She was the one to suffer an untimely and painful death in this delusion! She! _Always she!_

Instantly, pair of strong, muscular arms was encircling her once again, for all the world seeming to threaten to squeeze the life out of her. There was a gasp and a desperate flailing of limbs as her bedmate attempted to crush her to his chest. Thrashing her legs against him, she shrieked once more, the high-pitched noise reverberating cavernously around the room. Finally ensnaring her into a restraining embrace, the man who lay beside her implored, "T'Pol! Darling, it's me! Why are you—"

"Malcolm!" she wheezed, her palms finding either side of his face, his alarmed, anxious face. "You're—you're—_oh!"_ She buried her forehead into his neck, hungrily drawing in his scent.

She was shivering, the Briton noted, and her entire body had been seized by a powerful series of trembles. Concern gnawing at his gut, he lowered his lips to one of her delicate ears.

"Love—what are—what could have possibly—"

"Help me!" she clawed frantically at his back, leaving deep rifts in his skin where her fingernails had been.

He grimaced slightly at the sudden onslaught of pain, responding, "I'm trying—you need to tell me what has just—"

"N-n-n-nightmare," she sounded out, "Humans have those, do they not?"

"Yes, doll, but usually not this severe," he whispered in an attempt to quell the fears of the quivering woman in his arms. After some time of listening to her unsteady breathing, he continued, "What did you see?"

Her expression shifted abruptly, inexplicably morphing into the unchanging façade of a typically apathetic Vulcan. Attempting to rise from her position in bed, she droned, "That is of no consequence to you."

Her words hit him like a sharp punch to the gut. Seizing her by her elbow, he yanked her down once again, feeling a fleeting wave of regret at causing his inamorata harm. Inhaling sharply, he hissed, "Oh, no, I believe that it is. You're not going _anywhere."_

She acknowledged this declaration with a rapid sniff of disdain followed by an imploring look that made his heart melt. Falling back into his arms, she confessed, "I dreamt that you died."

He was shocked for a moment, before returning her embrace strongly, enthusiastically. "I'm here, my love, I'm alive. I'm not leaving you." She relaxed visibly at this assurance.

In the intimate silence that followed, he cleared his throat before inquiring, "Is this something that occurs often?"

"The nightmares?" He nodded against her cheek. "Infrequently, most seldom," she lied, praying that he did not sense the sudden tone change of her voice. "T'hy'la, I can assure you that this will never again transpire in your presence."

_Because I should endeavor to keep a supply of Trellium on my person at all times from now on,_ she added silently, _if I am to share my life with this man, he must not know of my plight._

Malcolm, unaware of her internal conflict, sighed in relief. At that moment, his computer console beeped once more, heralding the arrival of another new message.

His Vulcan beloved raised an eyebrow. "Are you going to answer that?"

"No," he admitted, raising his lips to meet hers in a slow, languid kiss.

Corporal Amanda Cole paced a short section of the corridor in front of Major Hayes' quarters, her thoughts racing faster than particles of antimatter inside a warp reactor. She knew that her superior was expecting an exact, coherent report on the nature of Lieutenant Reed's emotional state, but for the life of her she didn't know how to put into words the things that she had just seen. _Heard,_ she silently chided herself, she hadn't really _seen_ anything. Rather, she had heard frantic and intense conversation and the sounds of movement within.

She struggled to retrace her steps from her post patrolling the passageways of B Deck to how she managed to arrive in the antechamber of the room of the science laboratory that housed the Xindi star charts. She didn't go in there much; Amanda was aware that it was not her division and that there were too many things in there that had the potential to be broken by a clumsy young MACO. Meaning to only stick her head in and hand the PADD to the nearest scientist, her fingers froze only millimeters from the hatch.

"Two senior officers engaging in a romantic relationship is much less of an offense than the goddamn chief engineer assaulting the first officer on duty shift!"

Stopping dead in her tracks, Amanda's mind worked overtime as it processed who could have possibly been the originator of this noise. Only one member of the crew had such a distinct, clipped British accent—it had to be Lieutenant Reed! The continuation of the remark was obscured by the sound of her uniform rustling as she crouched to the floor and pressed her ear to the door.

"Don't even try that with me, Lieutenant! You've known that I'm in love with her for as long as we've been on Enterprise! I care about her, obviously unlike you—"

That voice. She knew that voice. So often it had accompanied her on her midday meal break, or regaled her with words of encouragement during biweekly training sessions with her fellow MACOs, or spoke casually about a young life in the south of Florida during infrequent neuropressure sessions. What—or rather, _who_—could Trip and Lieutenant Reed be arguing over?

"How dare you!" Amanda could hear the rage in his tone and inflection. There was a slight shuffling sound, and then a low feminine voice.

"Malcolm—"

The blood roared in her ears. Commander T'Pol? Were two of Enterprise's arguably most professional officers really fighting over a Vulcan? They don't have emotions, the side of her mind still steadfastly stuck in her old beliefs argued; they're incapable of feeling love. How had the situation progressed this far without her making it clear that she would spurn their every advance? Furthermore, why was she in there, allowing them to argue like a pair of overtly hormonal high school boys?

"She had sex with me, Mal! Freely and by her own volition! Whatever happened between you, whatever you've done, it doesn't mean shit—"

Amanda had the distinct feeling that she had missed an important snippet of the conversation during her reverie, but her quickly honed attention was once again diverted with Commander Tucker's outburst. This explains so much—so much attention from him, and then nothing. The blatant enthusiasm for neuropressure sessions with her and then deliberate rejection and ignorance of her advances—that could all be elucidated by the fact that he was waiting for some other girl, the one he undoubtedly preferred, to put out for him? A spark of ire flickered in Amanda's gut.

_Your mother always warned you about the playboys,_ she mused with a grimace, _this will be a learning experience if nothing else._

But wait—that means—

Malcolm and Commander T'Pol—!

Her stomach lurched at this sudden realization. It was strange enough for Enterprise's resident Vulcan to fall for the confident, easy-going chief engineer, but _this—!_

_That is why Malcolm's been so happy,_ the Corporal cogitated,_ he just has a new woman in his life._ Is that really all? Was this the big revelation that she was going to have to make to her commanding officer tonight? There were no undisclosed plans for weapons upgrades, no secret plots to dispose of Major Hayes as a senior officer? Amanda knew that her boss would be incredulous at this news. Now, pacing back and forth in the corridor before the door of his quarters, she contemplated her approach, anticipating his every reaction to her report. Hayes could be somewhat of a loose cannon; unsavory or disappointing news would most likely only add to his reaction.

Perhaps she could wait until the morning to speak with him. He did, after all, specifically request for her summation of the situation before 1100 hours the next day. It really was only—here she glanced at the chronometer embedded in the communication panel on the wall—a few minutes before 2000 hours. Had she really been standing out here for nearly an hour? The slender brunette shook her head, her ponytail swishing about her neck like a pendulum._ Come on, Amanda, you usually aren't this much of a pussy,_ she reproached herself mentally_, just go in there, for the love of God. What's the worst that could happen? Would he really take out his anger with the armory officer on you?_

Amanda knew the answer to that conjecture. Swallowing the rapidly forming lump in her throat, she pressed the button that would announce her arrival to the occupant within.

"Who is it?" The MACO let out a small sigh of relief. So far, so good; his mood doesn't appear entirely heinous today.

"Corporal Cole, sir," she called, shifting from foot to foot.

There was a distinct pause, and then came a punctuated command: "Enter."

The door before the anxious woman slid open with a faint hissing sound. Inhaling a bit of oxygen through her nostrils, Amanda attempted to muster as much courage and determination as she could. Although she managed to hide it quite effectively behind a well-trained militant façade, the Florida native did indeed suffer a great deal of disquiet when encountered with the unknown or situations full of circumstances unfamiliar to her. This, of course, would have done a number on her effectiveness in combat or on duty, had not she gone to great lengths to control these urges. As a result of many years of training and cautious rehearsal, Amanda had learned to control her nerves in a way that passed unbeknownst to any of her shipmates. Her mother had always told her to never let them see her sweat, and she was going to be damned if she was going to display any form of weakness in front of her superiors or anyone else.

Presently, Major Jeremiah Hayes had risen from a navy blue lounge chair in the far corner of the room and had approached his subordinate with the same shoulder swaying swagger that was all too characteristic of him. Unlike all of the other MACOs aboard Enterprise, Hayes resided in officer's quarters rather than in bunks. Amanda had never before entered his residence, but she could now see that it was both sparsely decorated and immaculately clean; a spot-on representation of the man before her. As she looked on, he crossed his arms in the small of his back and set his feet shoulder width apart in the common gesture of attention. Mirroring this pose, she dared not to look him in the eye, but slightly above him and to the left of one temple.

"Report, Corporal," he ordered, lowering his chin a fraction of an inch.

"Sir, I have spoken to Commander Tucker since we last convened," Amanda had determined that this was the best place to begin.

"What did he tell you?" Jeremiah was struggling valiantly to veil his interest.

"Absolutely nothing, sir," she replied. Sensing his disappointment at her statement, she added, _"However,_ I managed to gather a great deal of information from observing Lieutenant Reed."

"Like what?" His shoulders began to creep up towards his ears in a gesture that Amanda normally associated with discomfort and anticipation.

"I stumbled upon a conversation between him and Commanders Tucker and T'Pol," she began, not sure if she was violating some commonly known boundary of professional disclosure. Clenching her jaw to keep it from trembling, she continued, "The Commanders seemed to have been having a disagreement." This was an extreme understatement. "It appears that she had been engaging in a romantic relationship with him before abandoning him to pursue Lieutenant Reed." With some effort, Amanda managed to restrain the anger that was building in her gut._ And Trip, even when he had a perfectly attractive alternate option, decided to chase her still,_ she commented silently.

"The two men argued before Commander Tucker fled the room, noticeably upset," satisfied that her tale was complete, at least as much as she was willing to make known of it, she nodded succinctly.

"Really?" Hayes' expression had rapidly turned thoughtful, all the while a wide, conspiratorial grin widening across his cheeks.

This was certainly an unexpected reaction. Relaxing visibly, Amanda let out all of the excess air that she had been storing in her lungs throughout the exchange. Tilting her head to one side, she inquired, "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

He waved his hand in the air before turning his back to her and approaching the port hole at the far side of the room. Leaning on it with an outstretched elbow, he looked back at her expectantly.

Amanda's hands, unbeknownst to her, slid out from the small of her back and were clasped again at level with her stomach. "I can only help but come to the conclusion that Lieute—_Malcolm_ is so happy because he's involved in a new relationship."

"Yes, yes, of course," he acknowledged, his palm once again airborne._ "Never mind_ that we're currently in a hostile region of space where such distractions may be detrimental to both the crew and the mission."

Catching on to what he was implying, a wave of fear rippled through Amanda. Her superior hadn't previously struck her as a particularly vengeful person, but now he appeared to be considering taking such action. If anything, she would have preferred that Commander T'Pol remained involved with Malcolm Reed—it would serve Trip right to find that he couldn't always receive what he wanted. _Yes,_ she decided,_ that would do him nicely. That would teach him to lead her on like that—_

"I think that it may be beneficial for Archer to be aware of the current situation," here he widened his eyes, almost innocently, "after all, it would be irresponsible of me to keep such crucial information from my Captain. What do you think, Corporal?"

Amanda opened her mouth, fully prepared to regale him with several reasons why reporting the incident to the Captain would not be such a good idea, but she closed it again with a snap. It was not her place to criticize her commanding officer's decisions. But, he_ did_ ask, she told herself.

"I think that…considering the circumstances…" she began slowly, carefully stacking her thoughts against each other, "action on the part of someone may be required." _Yeah, like me_, she held,_ I'll wipe that smug little grin right off Commander Tucker's face—_

"Great. I knew that you would agree," strolling in her direction, he patted her roughly on the back. "Listen, Miss Cole, take the morning off before Phlox makes his rounds. You deserve it. I don't know what I could do without you."

Amanda swelled slightly at his flattering words, but deflated slightly as she knew that she had been both had and used. Swallowing her disappointment, she nodded. "It's really no problem, sir. Sleep well." And with that, Corporal Amanda Cole turned and fled the room with as measured and carious gait as she could.

Captain Jonathan Archer lay on his back in his quarters, unconsciously throwing a worn water polo ball up to the ceiling repeatedly. Over and over again, it would soar upwards before hurdling down to his face at a startling speed. Unflinchingly, with a well-developed reflex, he bumped it with the palm of his hand to assist the resumption of its arc into the air. Although he did not appear to be, he was deep in thought, his mind furiously overturning conjectures and scrutinizing minute details. This was a common behavior for him; ever since the Enterprise had entered the Expanse in search of the builders of the Xindi weapon, the mission had demanded much of his attention. He was nearly always otherwise occupied, with brief stints of relaxation and languid recreation shoved in the cracks of his incredibly busy schedule. Not unlike much of the crew; he had been experiencing symptoms equating to justifiable depression and adjustment disorder. He hoped that these feelings of utter listlessness and hopelessness would soon cease, but there really was no way he could gauge the duration of the mission until he met with Degra in a little less than a week and a half.

He needed something to distract from his work. There were no more movie nights. He no longer felt motivated to exercise or engage in the light-hearted intramural sports tournaments that the crewmen in the armory often organized. Even the man who he had formerly called his best friend had become distant and unreachable, so an obligation-free night of watching water polo matches and indulging in a bit of spirits was out of the question. He was aware that he had neglected to write at length in his personal log; there was just nothing to say. Jonathan felt utterly dejected, disinterested, and impartial to his surroundings.

Unless, of course, when he was speaking to Erika. At the beginning of their lengthy correspondence, the letters had been pages and pages long as they attempted to catch up on years of non-interaction. _What is your crew really like? Have you caused any intergalactic incidents yet? Tell me about all the embarrassing things that have happened to you all. Are the hotels on Risa really as lavish and luxurious as some of the boomers tell me? How are you? No, not the mission—how are you feeling? No, no, I'm fine, I'm only busy. I'm away from my apartment a lot, you know. It's not that I don't want to talk, Jonathan—it's that I'm often not able to._

Just like that, her messages had gone from in depth and intimate to impersonal and a mite cold. Had he said something to offend her? No, he was sure that he hadn't. Besides, Erika wasn't a woman to hide her indignation—if he had managed to piss her off somehow, she would have let him know.

Did she not want to speak to him anymore? Did he bore her, annoy her, cause her to want to take a plasma rifle to her skull? Again, she would have said something. _Jon, you've got to stop being so paranoid,_ he chided himself silently, _be mature about this. You're a grown man talking to a grown woman. Both of you have your own tasks and appointments to uphold. When she wants to talk, she will; until then you must bide your time._

But, all the same—what could she possibly be trying to hide?

The communication device on the wall beside his door beeped, announcing a visitor. Struggling with a grunt to sit up, he ruefully placed his water polo ball at the foot of his bed. Moving his hand a few feet to the left, he deposited a rough pat onto the back of Porthos, his trusty beagle. Acknowledging his ministration only with the indistinct flick of a single floppy ear, he turned his head to tuck in back into the satiny folds of his doggy bed.

Observing his pet's apparent lack of interest in him at the moment, Jon slid both legs over the edge of his bunk and called out to the unknown entity in the corridor, "Come in!"

The door slid open to reveal the hulking form of Major Jeremiah Hayes, whose brow was creased with concentration. Archer suppressed an exasperated sigh. This had better not be about Malcolm; he had had enough of the two of them for a while.

As the MACO shouldered his way into the room, his eyes sweeping this way and that, Jonathan rose to receive him. Conceding to his presence with a gruff nod, he inquired, "Can I do something for you, Major?"

He shook his head, indicating the negative. "Good evening, Captain. I hope that I did not interrupt your sleep."

"It's only 2100, Major. Besides, I'll be getting plenty of sleep while in that artificial coma," proffering a tight-lipped smile, Jon crossed his arms across his chest. Watching his expression shift from plaintive to pensive, he asked, "Is there a problem?"

"No, sir…I mean…_yes_, sir. A few new developments that you may like to know about, that's all."

Ah, so it was about Malcolm. Inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his lips, Jonathan attempted to control the irritation that was building inside him. With a curt nod, he designated that the man before him should continue.

Suddenly Jeremiah caught on, his eyes widening. "It has nothing to do with Lieutenant Reed and I, sir," observing the captain visibly relax, he added, "but it _definitely_ has something to do with his working relationship with another officer."

Only vaguely interested, Jon tilted his head in inquisition. He hoped that this was important—he hadn't had taken Major Hayes for a brownnoser or a man to slander others to get ahead, but that belief might have to change once he heard what he had to say.

Sighing deeply, his shoulders lowered and his countenance became one of distress and concern. "Corporal Cole has informed me that she observed Commanders Tucker and T'Pol in an argument with Lieutenant Reed."

"That isn't that unusual, Major," Jon found himself saying with a small smirk of amusement, "They verbally spar all of the time. The most rational of Vulcans and the most irrational of humans—"

"No, sir," he cut him off sharply. Upon realizing his misstep, he held up a reassuring palm. "I apologize. The disagreement appeared to be about with which man Commander T'Pol was engaging in a romantic relationship with."

Jon's eyebrows climbed into his hairline. He should have seen this coming, he realized, _the way they constantly quarreled and bickered like an old married couple…_

"Lieutenant Reed appeared to have been the aggressor in the situation," Hayes endeavored to stretch the truth just a bit. "It seems that Commander Tucker was only defending her honor as the Lieutenant approached him in the laboratory and demanded that he cease to be romantically involved with her."

"Why was the Corporal in the laboratory?"

This question caught him off guard. Sputtering a little bit, he responded, "She,_ uh,_ wasn't, sir. She was standing in a transition module listening to them argue through the doorway."

Jonathan's mind immediately began to drift. He and Erika had disputed quite frequently; being two very strong-willed individuals, it was easy to fall into the same old pattern of disagreements. It would often end in and unwinnable stand-off in which they would swear never to associate with the other again. By the end of the night, their mutual set of friends had convinced them to make up. All would be well again—until the next argument, perhaps.

Turning his attention back to the matter at hand, he queried somewhat absentmindedly, "The Corporal should really respect the privacy of her fellow officers, should she not?"

"With all due respect, sir, the disagreement was occurring in a public place."

"They were all off-duty," Jonathan retorted, knowing fully well that his logic was flawed. He wasn't consciously trying to get a rise out of the Major, was he?

"Not Commander T'Pol," one corner of Hayes' mouth curled up in a poorly disguised expression of distaste. The Captain seemed distracted, not entirely focused on what he was relating to him. In an attempt to re-concentrate his efforts on his main goal, he said, "I believe that some disciplinary action may be in order."

Jon resisted letting forth a snort in the display of his unwillfulness. Who was Major Hayes to tell him how to supervise his officers? Merely a few days ago he had been on the receiving end of the captain's own unique brand of chastisement, and now he was back to try and commit the same offenses that had gotten him into that similar trouble, albeit a little more subtly? It was unbelievable. _This man's stubborn,_ he mused,_ just like someone else I know…_

"I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job, sir," the man before him interjected, swaying slightly from side to side. "I'm only offering a suggestion based on the known standards and protocols of Starfleet."

Jon held up one hand in a gesture akin to reassurance, although he wasn't entirely sure that he wanted to bid it. "Don't worry, Major, I know that you don't mean any blatant disrespect. However, you are right in the fact that I'm going to need to discuss this matter with each of them."

A wave of satisfaction washed over Jeremiah. In his mind, he imagined how flustered Malcolm Reed would grow once confronted by his captain—and he had not have had to do anything sneaky or underhanded to inflict this mortification! Yes, he was sure that a firm reprimand would do wonders to knock his pride down a few notches.

However, he was distinctly aware of the noncommittal way in which the captain had vowed to accordingly deal with the matter. It didn't sound like he was very upset about the prospect of a love triangle among his top three ranking officers—

"Thank you, sir, for taking my opinions into consideration. You know as well as I do that we just _can't_ have little love affairs springing up all over the ship. What would be next, lover's spats during board meetings and public displays of affection on the bridge?" He shook his head to indicate his dissent of this notion. "We expect our fellow crewmen to be devoted, their heart, mind, and soul focused on the mission, not on chasing some potential bedmate. Don't you agree?"

Jon coughed and raised his hand to his lips to hide the crimson blush that was spreading rapidly across his cheeks. _Yeah, Captain, get with the program,_ he ruminated grimly, before responding with a strained and clipped, "Yes, I do."

The corners of Hayes' mouth turned up nearly imperceptibly in an uncharacteristic break of his typical professional façade. Nodding at his current commanding officer, he took his leave.

"Thank you once again, Captain. Goodbye." As soon as the doors slid shut behind him, Jon was down again, falling into his bunk with a shallow thump. Grasping his personal duty PADD, he endeavored to undertake one of the most difficult assignments that he had ever personally dealt himself: composing a follow-up letter to the woman formally known as Erika Hernandez.

_to be continued_


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Sorry for the delay, everyone! I finished with finals today-I'm done with my sophomore year and summer has officially begun! That being said, I'm going to catch up on all the writing that I should have done over the past two weeks. For you, that means more RDWO and Dead Stop, both updated every few days until mid-June, when my marching band and I are off to open and close Disney World for a solid week. Let's see if we can get this sucker done before then. For once, I actually followed through on my promises on the content of the next chapter. Let me know if everything here makes sense, especially the bit with Section 31. Mal is being a bit overdramatic, as usual. (You gotta love him.) I apologize for my horrible excuse for RTP angst at the end. But it really is important for the story line, so keep it in mind.

And now, for my obligatory request for feedback. Are everyone's motives clear? Does anything need to be clarified? Is everything feasible? Please let me know. Keep in mind, it's going pretty AU from here.

Also, I believe that I may have borrowed Hoshi's line about the interpretation of the meaning behind Trip's sudden _"Look"_ at T'Pol from a fic that I read once long ago, but for the life of me I cannot recall the name or the author. If you recognize it, drop me a line to tell me so that I might give credit where credit is due.

Next time: The first half of Hatchery.

**Right Direction, Wrong Occasion**

**Chapter Nine**

Ensign Hoshi Sato had determined that awakening after a four-day torpor was certainly an interesting sensation. She had been adrift in dream land, alternating between pleasant memories of visiting Mount Fuji with her mother as a young girl and walking along the beach on Risa as if it were the year prior, listening to the soothing sounds of people babbling in their native languages around her. Suddenly, the vivid colors that saturated her surroundings seemed to start to shimmer and then evaporate. She was sliding slowly into consciousness, and the first thing she saw was the broad grin of Doctor Phlox, who held an empty hypospray in his hands.

"Ah, good morning, Hoshi! Although, I should instead good afternoon, it's only 1500 hours, you know," he chirped, stepping aside as the young woman slid her legs off of the side of her bunk, groaning mutedly in the process.

"You should feel a bit of discomfort in your joints and extremities for a few hours due to the length of time that you were inactive. If the pain continues, don't hesitate to come and see me."

"Thank you, Doctor," her voice sounded foreign, a low growl in her throat. Using his extended forearm as leverage, she hoisted herself up to a standing position. "So, what was it like having the ship all to yourself?" she queried, holding her left arm over her head and using her opposite hand to stretch it behind her head.

Phlox's expression inexplicably changed, a sudden burst of distress leaping across his features, before it was gone once again. "Oh, the experience was _unique_ to say in the least. As they say, man is not meant to be alone."

Hoshi felt a spark of compassion for this outgoing medic; being so boisterous and fun-loving, it must have been hard for him to act as his own company over the past few days. Tilting her head to the side, she questioned, "Would you like to meet me for dinner, Doctor? Just give me an hour or so to shower and get changed."

The smile was back, this time seeming to make his person fairly vibrate with delight. He nodded succinctly. "Yes, of course, Hoshi. I need some time to finish my rounds. There are some crewmen that I have yet to awaken."

"Does 1630 hours sound good to you, then?" She reached behind herself to grab her ankle and pull it up to her buttocks, tottering uneasily on one leg.

"In fact it does, Ensign. I shall meet you then," with the dismissive wave of his hand, a gesture that he had picked up from his human colleagues, the Denobulan physician took his leave.

With a huff and a groan, Hoshi fell backwards onto her bunk in a motion reminiscent of the night previous. Waving her arms and legs in fanlike motions about her torso, she arched her back and relished the glorious release of rigidity. Closing her eyes once more and reasoning with herself that she had a while yet before she needed to prepare for her meal, she allowed her mind to drift.

It was unusual for Phlox to display even the slightest indication of uncertainty or anxiety—for as long as she could remember, the doctor had been the physical manifestation of optimism and sanguinity, bringing a needed morale boost to the seemingly perpetually somber crew of the Enterprise. Perhaps it was the circumstances, or the constant reminders of the dire urgency of their mission that hung in the air like an unpleasant odor. Hoshi knew that she, herself, was guilty of allowing the current state of affairs to influence her mood—just how many times had she snapped at an acquaintance if they had dared to interrupt her while she was hard at work at translating a particularly challenging Xindi Insectoid text? Too many, she was sure. When the stress and pressure got to her, these impulses were difficult to control.

Thank god that they had made it through the spatial disturbance unscathed—she had been among the crewmen to express doubts about the unconventional method of survival that the senior officers had chosen. What if the anesthesia wore off too quickly? What if the doctor had difficulty reviving them later? There were just too many questions left unanswered, but, nevertheless, when Phlox had come to her quarters the morning after her extremely odd encounter with Commander Tucker, she had submitted willingly to his treatment. After all, what other choice did she have? _Not a single one._

Speaking of Commander Tucker, Hoshi wondered if his mood had improved since he…no, she was fairly sure that there were many words to describe the chief's engineer's countenance upon departing her quarters last night, and sullen or dejected were not two of them. The more accurate question would be if his temperament had stayed as jovial as it had been. She hoped dearly that it had.

Hoshi knew that Trip had many female admirers—hell, she too took some sort of voyeuristic pleasure at observing him when he ventured nearby—but to the chief engineer, there was only ever one woman worth fighting for.

Hoshi had been tipped off to the possibility of the Commander harboring some sort of romantic feelings for the Vulcan science officer about a year prior. She had been sitting in on a meeting of the senior officers when the twosome had begun to banter, tossing pointed remarks back and forth as if engaged in a verbal sparring match. As she looked on, Captain Archer had leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed, signaling that he had given up on the possibility of intervention. Malcolm had zoned out, his fingers working busily across the screen of his duty PADD. To Hoshi, it seemed that no one had been paying attention when Commander Tucker had suddenly looked up from the table and given the Sub Commander a _Look._

Now, this_ Look_ wasn't any typical sideways peek or regarding gaze. This fleeting glance could have meant anything from _"I'm going to shove you out the nearest airlock"_ to _"Let's make babies."_

Hoshi had been campaigning for the latter.

Since that day, the sharp-eyed Asian woman, keenly observant as she often was, had been on the lookout for any distinguishing signs that the Enterprise's second and third command might be engaging in a relationship that might be described as anything other than professional. And she had found it time and time again.

She had gossiped about this promising association just as much as any of her colleagues, relating to them some of the more demure evidence that she had discovered. However, in mild recognition of Commander T'Pol's secretive nature, she had kept most of her findings a secret.

That is, until nearly a week ago when she had come across Commander Tucker, sullen and brooding at an empty table in the mess hall, immaculate save for the handful of ceramic shards that littered the floor before him. Ensign Sato knew that people enduring relationship issues often require the assistance of a trusted confidante, and she had quickly resolved to be that individual. No matter how long it took, the young woman was determined to support Trip in any way that she could—having suffered through numerous breakups herself, she was positive that she had some sort of understanding of how he was feeling.

After all, it was the least she could do for him—after nearly three years of casual friendship, she believed that she was fairly sure what made the self-assured Southerner tick. She had never claimed to be a therapeutic miracle worker, but there was certainly something to be said for possessing the willingness to help a companion.

Besides, both she and Commander Tucker deserved better than the current situation. Of that Hoshi Sato was sure. Never mind her aspirations and motives for the future of her association with Trip—this was now. This was what she was to focus on. Among the endless stressors that their mission in the Expanse had to offer, maintaining a good mental state was of the essence.

If only she could succeed in sustaining hers.

D Deck was deathly quiet in the early hours of the afternoon. Phlox, having begun his sweep of the crewman's quarters, had gotten off of the turbolift and proceeded in an orderly fashion from the unit wedged into the corner on. By happenstance, the first officer to be awakened was none other than Lieutenant Malcolm Reed. Stretching his arms about his head and clenching his fists to rid his body of the tingling sensations that lay like coiled springs within his taut muscles, he had given the doctor a curt nod.

"See, that wasn't entirely terrible, was it, Lieutenant?" Phlox had inquired, slinging his medical kit back over his shoulder.

"Pardon me?" Blinking rapidly to free the sleep from his eyes, Malcolm had not been sure that he had understood the question.

"Oh, you were among the majority that insisted that they did not need to be put to sleep for the duration of the time we were inside the disturbance, were you not? I do hope that some of your fears have been stayed. As you can see, the ship and your person appear to be perfectly intact." Phlox nodded succinctly and turned to leave.

"Wait a moment, Doctor—" Malcolm gasped as he took a step towards him, his weak ankles nearly giving way under the unexpected burden of motion. As the portly Denobulan turned once again to face him, he leaned against the wall plating. Shifting his weight, he inquired, "Did you have any difficulties operating the life support or helm controls?"

The corners of Phlox's mouth turned upwards in a distinct display of amusement. "If I had, I would have to recall to let Commander T'Pol or Ensign Mayweather know. I can assure you that during your period of inactivity there were no occurrences out of the ordinary." His demeanor changed for a brief moment as a fleeting mien of doubt dashed across his features. Inhaling deeply, he continued, "Lieutenant Reed, I know that you are prone to bouts of paranoia, _but—"_

Malcolm held up a single palm in reproach. No amount of explanation could convey the depth of the inexplicable, all-consuming sense of anxiety that befell him at that moment. He wasn't sure what it might be, but something somewhere must be out of order, out of place, out of protocol—

"It's quite alright," he frowned, realizing at once how perceptive his physician truly was. "What time is it?" Switching the topic of conversation and veering it towards a wanted closure was sure to alleviate this enigmatically brooding mood of his.

"Shortly after 1330 hours, Lieutenant. May I recommend heading to the mess hall and scavenging for what little food may have been left out? Your colleagues will surely be enthusiastic to, ah, do the same."

Malcolm nodded. "In which case, it may be beneficial for you to awaken Chef next." He regarded him with a weak smile, hopeful that his lame attempt at humor was enough to quell the doctor's fears for his mental condition.

Phlox suddenly grinned in the same manner as he often did, his face giving the impression that it would split under the sheer force and duration of his unrestrained satisfaction. Content, he took his leave of absence, ducking under the doorway as he went.

The Brit took a step towards the center of his room and surveyed his surroundings with hands positioned on his hips. Everything was in its proper place, right down to the proper level of lighting and the lingering scent of Vulcan spice. What reason had he to be nervous? Taking great care to swallow the lump that was quickly rising in his throat, he pivoted on his left heel to face the window.

Stars drifted lazily before his eyes, offering as good an indication as any that the Enterprise was still operating on impulse. To the distant left behind him, he could glimpse the edge of the voluminous cloud of ginger and rubicund. As his neck pivoted to rest his cheek against his shoulder, he caught sight of his computer console. A blinking light on the monitor signaled a newly arrived correspondence. Rotating his torso to face this newest development, he realized with sufficient dread that the message could not have been from any of his fellow crewmen. Nor from his mother or father—neither were known for their prompt replies. Placing one foot before the other, he approached the flash as if it were a live mine. As one hand left his side to reach for the button that would illuminate the screen, a sharp, reminding klaxon erupted from the console, causing the armory officer to jump backwards about a meter.

Regaining his composure, he shook his shoulders and pressed the button he had been aiming for. The display indicated that he had two unread messages. One appeared to be only several seconds long, while the other was nearly a full minute. The return address bar was empty save for a few nonsensical symbols that Malcolm could have recognized blindfolded. Checking the time stamps on each of them, the short audio clip appeared to have been transmitted several nights before. The newest one, only moments before.

Inhaling slowly, he compelled himself to face the irrefutable truth: there was only one man who would send a series of communications such as those.

"Time to face the music," he murmured grimly, sliding into his reclining office chair. He pressed the button that would begin to recite the message swiftly and before he could experience any second judgments.

"Lieutenant—" the voice on the other end began to speak, and Malcolm was instantly swept away on a wave of nostalgia and memories. That same voice…approaching him during his first year at the Academy…asking things of him that he never believed that he would be willing to do…breaking down lifetime convictions with a single command…

"I know that some time has passed since our last correspondence, but I'm sure that you are aware that your commitment to this organization is a _lifetime obligation."_ Malcolm nodded as his fingers ventured upwards to his temples. Resting his elbows on the surface of his desk, he exhaled noiselessly.

"I do have an assignment for you, which you must complete both inconspicuously and expediently. It may put you in the line of fire, but as the security officer on Earth's first warp five starship, I'm sure that you are used to that."

Reed grimaced, his forehead slipping into his palm. That was a substantial understatement.

"I understand that you are familiar to some extent with the Romulans. According to Star Fleet records, you encountered one of their mines—"

Malcolm did remember. His frenzied attempts to disengage the weapon had ultimately concluded with his leg becoming pinned to the hull. He and Captain Archer had barely survived the ordeal, and a significant portion of the impulse manifold had been exposed to the cold, unyielding naught of open space until they were able to make repairs. Although his commanding officer had insisted that it had not been his fault, he had naturally blamed the unfortunate series of events on his own unpreparedness and shoddy workmanship. Malcolm Reed was truly nothing if not self-depreciating.

"—and I'm sure that you were mystified as to why when you abandoned the system their ship chose not to pursue." Harris finished his thought, his lips pursed and held in a thin line. That much was true—after a string of angry demands and warning shots fired, the Romulans had not so much as attempted to follow them as they departed.

"It turns out that upon approaching your vessel, a thorough evaluative scan was completed of your computer network, including official Captain's and ship's logs. It appears that the Romulans know of your previous negotiations with the Andorians and how quickly the technology of our world had advanced. They are a hostile and distrustful race—quick to contemplate war. That being said, there are only a few ways in which we may postpone this eventual conflict. This is where you come in."

Malcolm swallowed heavily, lifting his head from his hands. The knots resting in his stomach were rapidly becoming more tangled and intense. He was willing to listen, as whatever action he would be asked to take might be beneficial to the entirety of humanity—the Romulans with their cloaking devices and potent weapons and efficient tactical maneuvers—it didn't take a brilliant military strategist to deduce that they would threaten the security of Earth and the quickly-forming coalition of worlds in the vicinity.

"The Romulans are distinctly aware of your Captain's association with the Andorians. They know of his prowess in battle and negotiation. Without him and his connection to one Commander Shran, many of their fears and paranoid assumptions might be stayed." Harris sat back in his chair, his eyebrow raised appraisingly. "It appears that the only feasible method of postponing this inevitable clash of powers falls into your mildly capable hands, Lieutenant. In three weeks' time, Captain Jonathan Archer must be killed and his significant influence disposed of—"

Harris continued speaking, but Malcolm was a world away, lost in his own thoughts. It seemed to him that his entire person had frozen, that he had broken out in a frigid chill and his heart had ceased to beat. _Is he really asking me to—_

"I trust that you will have dealt with this assignment in as discreet of a method as possible. No one must know of the action we are committing to ensure the welfare of humanity and all other worlds within the universe. Without Archer, a less experienced officer will assume command and Enterprise will resume its effort to disable and destroy the Xindi weapon. More lives will be spared in the long run." Contemplatively crossing his arms over his chest as he debated his next verbal swing, Harris sustained, "I understand that the Reed family has been _notoriously_ devoted and loyal to their superior's requests over the centuries. I sincerely hope that you will not be an_ exception_ to the rule."

That was a low blow. Malcolm's ears reddened, and he began to feel as if he was on fire. How dare this man attempt to persuade him to commit murder by playing to his family's history of servitude—!

"Section 31 is not above making threats to ensure that our operatives carry out their assignments, Lieutenant, but under the circumstances I don't believe that I will have to take that precaution with you." The man on the view screen suddenly leaned forward, his creased forehead mere inches from the camera's lens. "I believe that your own innate desire to do good for humanity will outweigh your hesitance."

_Oh, this should be good_. Malcolm snorted as his indignance grew.

"There is a higher chance of your family's lives being endangered sooner if you do not complete this mission." A small smirk crept onto Harris' features, as Malcolm's expression fell. "Billions of lives will be threatened or even terminated if you do not follow through. I'm sure that you would not enjoy self-inflicting the blame of such a tragedy on yourself. For all intents and purposes, any retaliating activities by the Romulans against the forming coalition will be your fault and your cross to bear. That is, _unless_ you acknowledge the responsibility that you have been dealt. I will be awaiting your response within the next three Earth Standard days, along with a tentative plan of action. And do not be convinced that I have been fooled by these games of non-response, Lieutenant; any _respectable_ operative of Section 31 would have the decency to respond to their communiques." With the pointed jab of a forefinger, the recorded dispatch ended and he fell backwards into his chair, his head coming to rest in view of the ceiling.

On the computer's screen, the second message began to play automatically. Harris was harking back to his mandatory allegiance to the organization in a clipped set of remarks nearing ten seconds. Malcolm, however, was not listening as he waged a war with his own demons within his person.

It had not surprised him to learn that these Romulans were just as violent as he and much of the crew had already surmised. He was certain that they did indeed have the capability of harming the citizens of Earth or Andoria if they desired—after all, what would have been the purpose of building such devastatingly accurate weapons if they did not intend to use them? Harris' thought process had been distinctly plausible in a way that Malcolm could tell that his informants and advisors had thoroughly educated him on the matter. He could understand how eliminating the root of the Romulan's distrust for humanity might aid in the postponement of an inter-galactic war. In his mind's eye, he saw his parents and his sister Madeline, proud and lifted up by their knowledge of their son's success in the Expanse—and, best of all, blissfully unaware of how their lives might have been affected by his errors. Harris, impressed by his promptness in his compliance, would let him alone, allowing him to recount for his emotional losses and hits to his mental stability. It was the most suitable option. It was what he must do.

_But this is my Captain!_ His mind screamed suddenly. Moaning, he pressed his palms to either cheek and trailed them down his jowls. _My friend, my commanding officer, the man to which I have entrusted my life! Whatever happened to moral necessity, to doing what was ethically proper? When did I become the kind of man who would contemplate homicide in cold blood? At what time? How? Why?_

_If I am caught, my career will be over. I'll be sentenced to prison time for sure!_ He pitched forward as he imagined T'Pol viewing him from the witness stand of a Starfleet standard court room, tears rolling down her tanned cheeks as she recounted the gain and loss of the man she loved to the allure of corruption._ She's not one to cry,_ he mentally chastised himself, feeling his heart pounding dully within his chest. _But she is one to have nightmares and delusions of obligation…it's only a small step up until…_

He gasped suddenly, head bobbing to an upward position. With shaky hands, he slid his personal information PADD from the cubbyhole above his desk. After a few short moments of perusal, he found what he had been looking for. Leaning towards his console, he began to compose his conduction to Harris.

A few days later, Commander T'Pol perched erect in her desk chair, rolling a vial filled with darkly colored liquid between her fingers. Ever since she had awakened from her medically-induced coma, she had been experiencing her cravings for Trellium-D in increasingly frequent and more demanding intervals. By all accounts, this recent development should not have been occurring—although she and Malcolm had spent the previous night together, she still felt the curious mixture of paranoia and nervous energy gripping her very essence with no indication that it would lessen any time soon.

It had become a nightly ritual. Returning to her room after a duty shift full of inconsequential preparations and tweaks to her database of Xindi star charts, he would be waiting for her. Regarding her with a sympathetic gaze, he would envelope her in a crushing embrace that would have injured any human woman. Finding solace in his affection for her, she would lean into him, placing her head upon his chest and allowing her worries and doubts to go by the wayside, if only for a moment. This manner in which he greeted her, so distinctly full of both compassion and concern, was her undoing.

_He knows, he knows._ This faint rumination echoed about in her skull until she believed that she would collapse inwardly from the overwhelming feelings of suspicion washing over her in waves, bathing her psyche in an unusually mistrustful mien. However, Malcolm continued to say nothing about the matter, even as they lay in bed together a few short moments later. While his strong arms were wrapped around her trim waist, she had placed either palm across his muscular torso. Foreheads pressed together, they stared into each other's eyes, each dearly desiring to find out whether their partner knew of their respective covert endeavors. However, per the norm, the inexorable, albeit comfortable silence spoke for neither of them.

Relishing in the warmth and security that accompanied this propinquity, she buried her head into the crook of his neck and soon fell into a deep, restless sleep. Sometime during the night T'Pol had become aware that she was alone in her bunk; lifting her head a few inches from a firm pillow, she allowed her swollen eyes to travel about the room. Several paces away, her _t'hy'la_ leaned motionless against the porthole, an unseeing scrutiny fixated on a stellar object in the distance. His facial expression could only be described as pained in the pale glow of a dimming meditation candle, and he seemed to be rooted in deep contemplation.

Lowering her head once more, T'Pol could not help but conjecture as to what would distress Malcolm so. Languishing in her typical post-injection unease, she could not stop herself from inferring that she was the origin of the problem.

_Having a Vulcan mate was not planned for…the emotional turmoil…he finds me a burden, an encumbrance, an unfortunate liability. He would be more content with a human woman, or one that he would not have to compete with another man for her affections…_

These susurrations of doubt had persisted for a great deal of the night and following morning. Now, reflecting in the short moments before she would have to attend to her duty shift, she deliberated if it would be ill-advised to partake in her ill vice so soon to her previous dose. Only eighteen hours…the shortest interval between administrations yet! She knew that she had to remain attentive for the duration of her shift today, as the ensign manning her station during gamma shift had indicated that they were now in orbit over the certain desolate, uninhabited Minshara Class planet that she had apparently requested that they avert their route to. T'Pol had been puzzled. Had she given that order? If affirmative, she did not remember such. Could it be that she simply did not recall that particular event? She was still growing accustomed to the effects of Trellium on her system, its main afflictions and unintended side effects. Although inherently unaware of the possibility of the ultimate condition that it might cause her, T'Pol had learned to be cautious with her sampling and subsequent, new-found addiction to the drug. However vigilant she was, she often surrendered herself to her weakness, the indelible cravings causing her to act contrary to her logical frame of mind. Pressing the hypospray to a throbbing vein within her neck, she inhaled deeply and relished the sweet sensations of a dependence suppressed, even if only for the moment.

As her eyes fell on her computer console, she read the date: January 8th, 2154. The present, however dim or vague impression that it might make on her in the moment, was now; if she was going to survive Enterprise's mission into the Expanse with sanity intact, she was going to have to start thinking on her feet.

_to be continued_


End file.
